Rocket Science
by sam's folly
Summary: Story #2/Redefining Joy 'Verse. Dean has been moonlighting as a hunter. What happens when Dean's girlfriend finds out monsters are real?
1. Chapter 1

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a spin-off of my story Redefining Joy. However, I don't think you have to read it to understand what's going on in this story, although it would probably be better. The main thing you need to know is that Sam sustained an SCI (spinal cord injury) and has paraplegia.  
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**_This story is rated T for the F word and other bad language, along with sexual content and possible mentions of bodily functions. Otherwise, it's pretty tame. :) _**

**_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize I borrowed from the show created by Eric Kripke. I'm not making any money from this, and no copyright infringement is intended. My original characters are purely fictional and any similarity to real people is coincidental. Hope that covers it!_  
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**Chapter 1**

Dean watched Sam's jaw harden and felt a twinge of sympathy for his little brother, but he quickly buried it. "Come on, Sam. It's like a lunar vehicle. Pretend you're an astronaut, like Buzz Lightyear."

"It's Aldrin, Dean."

"What?"

"Buzz Aldrin is a real astronaut. Buzz Lightyear is a character from _Toy Story_."

"'_Buzz Lightyear is a character from Toy Story,_'" said Dean in a mocking tone, swaying his head abruptly from side to side. "Thank you, Nancy Know-It-All, for clearing that up." As if he didn't know that. He was just trying to make light of the situation.

Sam exhaled with annoyance, jaw still tight.

They were at the Central Beach Lifeguard Tower on Coronado Beach, renting one of the free beach wheelchairs for Sam. The muscle-headed lifeguard in charge of doling them out—who looked a bit like Conan the Barbarian—was waiting for Sam to transfer to one of them from his own wheelchair. Once Sam transferred, the lifeguard would store Sam's regular wheelchair in a safe place, sort of as a deposit in order to ensure they brought the beach chair back.

They'd all been planning this trip to Coronado for weeks to celebrate Heather's birthday, which was in a couple of days. Heather, a native of San Diego, loved the beach, and she'd wanted a day in the sun with good friends and the beauty of the ocean instead of a party or a night out.

It was October, and they'd gotten there around ten that morning because Heather had said the earlier they got there, the better. She wasn't sure about the parking, since she'd only ever parked on the street and had always tried to get there early to find a spot. However, when they'd gotten there, they had found disabled parking near Isabella Avenue, so they'd had no problems.

Although it was a bright, sunny morning that promised more warmth later on, TJ and Heather had shorts and hoodie sweatshirts on over their bathing suits to protect them from the chilly breeze, and their ponytails were flapping in the wind. Sam and Dean were dressed similarly, only with swim trunks on instead of bikinis, of course, and Dean was wearing a plain, olive-green sweatshirt. He didn't do hoodies.

Heather and TJ were eyeing the water, TJ shading her eyes against the sun with her hand, since she and Sam had both forgotten their sunglasses. Heather had said the water was always kind of cold but that it was warmest in August, September, and October. Dean was skeptical. If the ocean felt anything like the breeze that was blowing, there could be some serious nut shrinkage going on, and he wasn't thrilled by that prospect.

He felt like a fish out of water. He didn't think his legs had ever seen the light of day, except for maybe an occasional jog with Heather; but, then again, none of them really had tans. Work and school and being adults hadn't left much time for such trivial things.

It was Sam's first trip to the beach as a wheelchair user, and he'd been quiet during the thirty-minute drive in the Impala to Coronado. Dean wondered if Sam's silence was because his legs were hurting or if it was something else, like the fact that he was remembering the last time he'd been on a beach _walking_, waiting for Yellow Eyes to make a move, hoping—as it turned out, futilely—that the demon was his ticket to healing his spinal cord injury. Maybe Sam's broodiness was the result of a little bit of both.

When Sam's legs were hurting—when he got the sometimes excruciating pain caused by fucked up nerves that Dean didn't really understand—he sort of withdrew into himself, used some of his yoga hoodoo to try to get through the pain. He'd gotten off all his medications—the antidepressant, the pain and antispasticity meds—and used yoga and other forms of pain management to deal with it.

His legs jiggled more often now than when he'd been on the baclofen, the medication that kept the uncontrollable spasms at bay and kept his muscles flexible. He kept his muscle tone from getting too stiff and spastic by doing yoga and range-of-motion exercises every day and keeping his body active in other ways, like using his leg braces and crutches to get around the apartment when he was at home.

For the most part, Sam was finally adjusting and moving on with his life. He had overcome the depression, anger, and self-pity of that first year after his injury and had moved on to acceptance. He'd only been back in college for about a month, but he was doing well and had already put in some applications at law schools in the state for the fall of next year, since his freakishly high LSAT score was still valid.

The rift between Dean and Sam had been healed, and they were as close as they'd always been. And, then, of course, there was TJ. Sam was completely and totally in love with her, and Dean was happy for him—for both of them, actually—because she was just as gaga over Sam. It was a little disgusting at times.

It had been a year and nine months since a poltergeist had severed Sam's spinal cord with a kitchen knife and paralyzed him, and he had learned to live and love again; but he still had his bad days, just like anyone else, and this, unfortunately, seemed to be one of them.

The beach wheelchair really did look like a lunar vehicle to Dean with its four, uniformly-sized, gray balloon wheels made of a soft plastic. They were obviously made to roll over powdery sand that a normal wheelchair would sink into. The frame was made of PVC pipe, and there was a comfortable-looking blue cushion for the back and seat. However, there were no large back wheels with hand rims like Sam's regular wheelchair, and there was no way for Sam to propel himself.

Although the looks of the thing weren't exactly what you'd call cool, the fact that someone else would have to push him was probably the main reason for the dour, bitchy look on Sam's face. He was fiercely independent to the point of stubbornness—no shock there. He was also probably ticked about the fact that he had to leave his own chair at the lifeguard tower as a deposit.

TJ turned to Sam, freckles and a grin of childlike enthusiasm lighting up her face, tendrils of her hair that had escaped its ponytail whipping around her cheeks in the ocean breeze. "Hurry up, Sam." When she said "Sam," her Kentucky accent slipped through, giving the one-syllable name about three more vowels than it was supposed to have. "That water looks awesome. I can't _wait_ to get in."

Sam's jaw relaxed a little, and, with a sigh, he locked the brakes on his own chair, scooted himself forward on the seat cushion, and took his bare feet off the footplate with his hands. Then, he put one hand on the cushion of the beach chair and one on the frame of his own wheelchair and swiftly transferred himself to the beach cruiser, coming into it from the front, since the PVC armrests prevented him from doing a lateral transfer. Once in it, he put his feet on the footrest, which was high off the ground so it wouldn't drag in the sand, and then adjusted himself until he was comfortable. With resignation, he said, "So, who's gonna push me?"

TJ winked at Dean and then got behind Sam, putting her hands on the push handles of the chair and bending down close to Sam's ear. "Me," she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled, lowering his lids a little, like he'd just inhaled some illegal substance.

Dean rolled his eyes. It was the first time he'd seen his brother smile that day. TJ was like a hit of crack for Sam—he was high every time he was near her.

"Here," Dean said to Sam, piling beach bags onto Sam's lap. Then he eyed the lifeguard and nodded at Sam's sleek, compact, rigid-frame wheelchair. "See that nothing happens to that. Okay?"

Conan nodded back. "Sure thing. It'll be here when you get back. You're normally supposed to check in every hour to make sure there's not a waiting list for the beach cruiser, but it's not that crowded today, and we've still got chairs left. If it becomes an issue, I'll find you guys."

"All right. Thanks," said Dean, respecting Conan a little more. He liked anyone who broke the rules every now and then.

He lifted their ice chest full of water, soda, and food—beer wasn't allowed on the beach—and they all started walking toward the water. They were planning on building a fire in one of the metal fire rings later and cooking hot dogs for Dean and Heather and some kind of fake, vegetarian hot dogs for Sam and TJ.

Sam and TJ were both geeky health nuts, especially TJ, who was still dealing with her eating disorder. She'd channeled the destructive behavior of her bulimia and anorexia into an obsession for healthy eating and wouldn't get near a processed Oscar Mayer wiener. She and Sam were into whole foods and local produce and shit like that and mostly ate like vegetarians.

_Like fake meat isn't processed,_ Dean thought cynically. Who even knew what was in it? At least a real frank was made out of beef—mostly.

A few months ago, Sam had confided to Dean that even he thought TJ's preoccupation with food was excessive, and he was a little worried about her. He'd tried to get her to open up to him or at least talk about it with her counselor, and judging by the fact that TJ had seemed to fill out more in the last few weeks, maybe she had listened. That didn't mean, however, that she was ready to run out and order a meat lover's pizza.

As soon as they'd found a good spot near a fire pit and spread out all their stuff, TJ pushed Sam up to the water's edge. He transferred himself from the beach chair to the wet sand in one easy motion, even though it was a difficult transfer from the high seat of the chair to the low ground.

_That's my boy, Sammy, _thought Dean. Sam had always been in shape and strong, but he had upper-body strength now that would give any world-class bodybuilder a run for his money. Sam swore it was more due to the yoga than the activities of daily living that required him to use his arms. Lately, Dean had almost been tempted to try yoga himself—_almost_.

TJ and Sam had ventured to where they were both sitting in the surf, and the water was up to Sam's chest and TJ's shoulders. She rose up and sat in his lap, facing him, and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his mouth. A wave swelled and crashed over them, soaking them and plastering their almost identically-colored hair to their heads, although TJ's hair had a tinge of red in it that Sam's didn't have. They both sputtered and started laughing.

Heather was sitting next to Dean on the huge blanket they'd packed. She was leaning back, bracing herself with her arms, loose strands of her coppery, ponytailed hair blowing around her face, her perfect, pale skin glowing in the sun. She was a beautiful girl, and not only in looks. She was incredibly smart, not to mention compassionate and considerate—just an all-around really great person—and he'd thought many times that he didn't deserve her, that she was too good for him.

She'd told him more than once that she loved him, but he hadn't been able to say it back. It wasn't that he didn't feel the same, necessarily, but there were things she didn't know about him, things he was afraid to tell her. He'd spilled the beans once to another girl—Cassie—the first girl he'd ever thought he loved. She'd called him nuts, threatened him with a restraining order, and dumped him. He'd vowed never to break the cardinal family rule—don't talk about hunting to civilians—ever again, and he'd vowed never to put his heart on the line ever again, too.

Heather was different from Cassie in a lot of ways. For one thing, she was more sensitive to other people's feelings and had a sense of humor. However, in a few ways, she was a little like Cassie. She was practical and down-to-earth and relied on facts and what she could see with her own two eyes to draw conclusions.

Dean didn't think it would be easy to convince her that ghosts were real, even with Sam and TJ backing him up, and he didn't want to take the chance that she'd just write them all off as crazy. He'd gotten used to having Heather around, and he wasn't about to do something to ruin what he had with her, whatever it was. He also couldn't stand the thought of her thinking he was a wacko. Of course, he could take her on a hunt, but there was no way he'd ever willingly put her in danger.

Heather smiled wistfully, watching Sam give TJ a kiss. "They never get enough of each other."

Dean snorted. "You're tellin' me. It's like living with Ron Jeremy and Jenna Jameson."

"Who are they?"

He smiled, amused. "Never mind." It was one of the things he liked about her, the fact that she was classy and came from a completely different, normal, upper-class existence. She hadn't grown up with the seedy, darker side of life like he had. It was another reason he didn't want to shatter that illusion she had of a fugly-free world.

Of course, it wasn't like she hadn't seen horrible things in the last two years she'd worked to become a paramedic. It scared him that some of the stuff she'd seen could be the result of something supernatural, that she could be coming into contact with it—or the aftermath of it—through her job. He wanted to keep her innocent of it all, wanted to protect her.

He didn't know why he felt that way, exactly, because she was strong and competent. She had somehow managed to keep her waitress job at Shorty's, the sports bar and grill where they'd first met and worked together, and still do the grueling coursework and studying required to become a paramedic. That alone attested to the fact that she could take care of herself, and she sure as hell hadn't gotten any help from that snooty family of hers.

She cocked her head to the side, realization dawning on her face. "Oh. They're porn stars, aren't they?"

He grinned. "Yeah."

She gave him a saucy smirk. "My neighbors might say the same thing about us."

He chuckled.

They were both wearing sunglasses, and he wanted to reach over and take hers off so he could see her eyes. They were a light blue fringed by dark, auburn lashes, and he never got tired of looking at them. Instead, he said, "You put enough sunscreen on?" He felt like her dad for saying that, but he couldn't stand the thought of that delicate skin of hers getting sunburned.

She smiled. "Yeah. Did you?"

"Yeah."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, and then she said, "I'm surprised there's not that many people here. Coronado never seems as crowded as some of the other beaches around here, but, for a Sunday, it's really not crowded at all."

"No. It doesn't seem that bad."

"So what do you think of the Hotel del Coronado?"

Behind her was the huge, wooden, Victorian-era resort, built in 1888. White with an impressive red roof line that included large, pointed towers at various points, it provided an interesting backdrop for the beach. "It's...nice."

"Maybe we should go through it someday. I've never been in it, even though I grew up in San Diego and have been coming to Coronado ever since I can remember. They have tours of it, and I love old buildings like that. Did you know _The Wizard of Oz_ was written there?"

"Yeah," said Dean absently, "I did. I stayed there once." He was distracted by her mouth, loving the way it was a little crooked when she talked, how it kind of quirked faintly to one side. It kept her delicate features from being too perfect, made her more real.

She looked surprised. "You did?"

_Dammit. _He shouldn't have let that slip. He always tried to steer clear of talking about his past. He cleared his throat. "Sam and I stayed there with our dad once. We learned a bit about the history of the hotel."

What he left out was that they'd ganked some lady ghost that was haunting one of the rooms.

Heather frowned a little. "Wow, doesn't seem like the kind of place I would picture you guys staying in, although I don't really know anything about your dad."

Dean arched a brow. "What—you don't think we'd fancy a game of croquet and a cup of tea on the north lawn?"

She laughed and nudged his shoulder playfully with her hand. "I can't even believe you just said the word 'croquet.'"

He hung his head for a second, smiling.

"So, why did you guys stay there?"

He gave a little half-shrug. "My dad had a job here. My brother and I had to tag along. We traveled around a lot with our dad after our mother died."

A flash of sympathy crossed her face, and then she looked at him intently. "I think that's the most you've ever said about your childhood."

"Is it?"

"Yeah."

"Huh," he said, trying to think of some way to change the subject.

One side of her mouth quirked wryly. "I take it that means you're not going to say any more?"

He felt uneasy. "Not much to say."

"What was your dad's job?"

"He was a, uh, private investigator. We had to travel around a lot to where the jobs were."

"You had to travel around California?"

"No. All over the country."

"Where was your home base?"

Now he was feeling really uncomfortable, could feel his neck muscles tensing. "Well, Sam and I were born in Lawrence, Kansas. That's where our parents were from and where we lived until our mom died. Her death was real hard on my dad. He never really wanted to stay in one place after that."

"I've never heard of a private investigator that had to move all over the country before."

He shrugged. "Now you have."

She was quiet for a moment and then said, "How did Sam get hurt, Dean? TJ told me he got stabbed, but what happened?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." It was his standard answer. She'd asked before, but she'd never pushed him on it.

"Dean," she said softly, "how long have we been going out? I hope you know that I'm here for you, that you can talk to me about anything."

Now she was pushing, if the sort of tentative, gentle way she'd spoken could be classified as pushing.

He grabbed a handful of sand next to the blanket and let it sift slowly through his fingers. "There's just not much to tell. We used to be in the same line of work as our dad. We took over the family business after he was killed in a car wreck. It was dangerous a lot of the time, and Sam got hurt on the job."

"But _how_?"

He was feeling cornered. "It's not something I like to talk about, Heather. Ask Sam or TJ."

Let her ask them. Let them come up with a reasonable explanation. Let them be the ones that lied to her or gave her half-truths. He was a coward, but he just didn't have it in himself to do it.

She sighed. "I'm asking you, Dean, because you're the one that's my boyfriend." She sat up straighter, clapping her hands together to shake off a little bit of sand that had blown onto the blanket. "Besides, I did ask TJ. She's as vague about it as you are, and I feel awkward asking Sam about it. I feel like there's this big secret everyone is in on except for me."

Dean felt a stab of guilt and rubbed his fingers over his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to dredge up painful memories. It's just that I'm an open book to you, Dean. You know everything there is to know about me, and sometimes I feel like I know next to nothing about you."

"How does knowing how Sam got hurt tell you anything about me?"

"Because your life is intertwined with Sam's. If he's happy, you're happy. It's taken you _both_ a long time to get over his injury."

Dean eyed the mammoth hotel in the background and decided to see what kind of reaction he'd get from her if he brought up the paranormal. "That hotel used to be haunted, you know."

She sighed. "You're changing the subject."

"I heard the story when we stayed there with my dad. There was a woman that supposedly killed herself and then haunted the room she stayed in. Some think she was murdered. I don't think anyone's seen anything in a while, though."

She looked surprised. "And you know this because...?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes I look it up on the Internet just to see. I guess I was kind of fascinated by it as a teenager when we stayed there."

"But you don't really think there was a ghost there, do you?"

He studied her. "Maybe."

She leaned toward him, took his face in her hands, and looked at him over the top of her sunglasses, her mouth curving into a faintly indulgent smile. "Dean, didn't anyone ever tell you there's no such thing as ghosts?"

"You don't think it's possible?"

"No. Ghosts don't exist," she said with certainty, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

The kiss, the softness of her lips, made his heartbeat quicken, but he wanted to see where this led. "How do you know?"

She leaned back a little and arched her brows, incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"I'm just curious how you can be so sure."

She scrunched her face in an expression that said he was being weird. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you." She shifted back to her spot on the blanket and braced herself with her hands again. "I mean, I'm a little surprised. You don't strike me as the type."

"What type is that?"

"You know, those geeky people that go into houses that are supposed to be haunted with their infrared cameras and electromagnetic readers and stuff, wasting their time looking for something that doesn't exist, and then act like the floor creaking is a ghost. It's so silly. I can't believe anyone actually watches that crap on TV."

Dean forced out a laugh. "Yeah. I guess that is pretty silly."

No way was he going to tell her that he'd taken a few easy hunts recently because there'd been no one else to take them, that he _was_ one of those people.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ finished drying herself off and quickly dug in her beach bag for the hoodies. She and Sam had gotten used to the cold ocean water, but when they'd gotten out, being wet combined with the breeze had felt like they were in Antarctica.

Sam transferred himself from the beach chair to the blanket, and she handed him a large towel so he could dry off. When he was done, she handed him his black hoodie. The wind was blowing his shaggy, dark-brown hair dry, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms rippled as he pulled the hoodie over his head.

_Mercy._ The sight of him caused a tightening in her belly and a surge in her blood pressure, and she took a calming breath in an effort to tame her hormones.

Heather and Dean had gone for a walk, so TJ and Sam had the blanket to themselves. They sat in silence for a few moments, leaning back and bracing themselves with their arms, their legs out in front of them, soaking in the warmth of the sun. Sam's right leg had started to bounce up and down a little. It was something TJ had long since gotten used to, the occasional spasming of his legs, but she worried that his legs might get sunburned. He had been in the water with her for a while, and she was worried that the sunscreen he'd put on beforehand could have washed off.

Of course, his skin tone was a little darker than hers, and he tanned easily, but she was his girlfriend. She was entitled to a little fuss over him, knowing that, as a guy, it probably wouldn't even occur to him that he would need more sunblock.

She rummaged in her bag and found a bottle of SPF 30. She rubbed some on her own legs first, along with her face and neck. It smelled good, like summer and fun times, and she offered the bottle to him nonchalantly. "Here. Better put some on."

"I put some on earlier when we first got here."

"I know, but you're supposed to reapply after being in the water and excessive toweling."

He didn't move. In fact, he seemed a little rigid, his shoulders hunched, but when he spoke, his voice was a caress. "You do it for me, TJ," he said, holding her eyes for a moment.

Her stomach did a little flip. She would gladly do it for him. She would walk through hot coals for him if he asked her to do it in that velvety tone of voice.

She squirted some of the lotion onto her palm and began to spread it onto the lower part of his right leg, ignoring the way the leg spasmed under her hands. She was, however, shocked by how cold his skin was, but she should have known. The paralyzed part of his body didn't regulate temperature and usually took on the temperature of the environment around him. If his legs got cold, they didn't shiver, and if they got hot, they didn't sweat. His upper body would try to compensate for the change of temperature, but it was sometimes hard for him to warm up or cool down.

She quickly spread the lotion all over both of his legs and feet, feeling a slight grittiness on his skin from the salt and sand, and then sat in front of him between his thighs, her back to him, letting the skin of her legs touch his, sharing her body heat with him.

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her.

She could feel the upper part of his body shivering, but she didn't comment on it. It was just one of the things he had to deal with because of his spinal cord injury, one of the things they both dealt with as if it weren't a big deal because it wasn't. It was just a part of life.

He put his cool cheek next to hers, and she willed her warmth into it. His voice was a low vibration, a part of the wind. "I love you."

She shivered, too, but it wasn't because she was cold. Her heart was overflowing with him, and she brought his hand to her lips and kissed his thumb. "I love you too, Sam."

**XXXXXXXX**

It was late afternoon, and the weather had gotten unexpectedly overcast. Heather was watching Dean grill hot dogs—or what resembled hot dogs, anyway, in Sam and TJ's case—over the fire ring, turning them over with a pair of tongs they'd brought with them from home. Dean had placed as many buns on the little grill part that covered part of the fire ring as would fit, along with the dogs.

The charcoal smell of the fire, the roar of the waves in the background, the wind, the sand—it all brought back memories of her childhood, and she felt a pang of regret that her relationship with her family had deteriorated to the point where she hardly ever spoke to them.

Her dad was an affluent businessman in San Diego, her mom a housewife involved in numerous charities and good causes, and her older brother Justin was finishing up his last year of a surgical residency in Los Angeles, well on his way to a promising career as an orthopedic surgeon.

She'd planned originally to major in business and follow in her dad's footsteps, but when she had just started her junior year at San Diego State, she'd had a fling with a guy who was a paramedic. Although things hadn't worked out with the guy, knowing him had changed the course of her life. He'd arranged as a "date" for her to do a ride-along with him in his ambulance one night, and she'd been hooked, had sort of found her calling. She'd never really liked college, anyway.

"Calling" sounded dramatic, but it was true. It was a calling because she sure as heck wasn't in it for the money. Paramedics were notoriously underpaid, and it was worse for her, since she was a rookie. She was barely scraping by making twelve dollars an hour, and, since she worked only two or three 24-hour shifts a week as a paramedic, she moonlighted at Shorty's a couple of her evenings off to supplement her income.

She worked hard, and it definitely wasn't the life she and her parents had first envisioned for her, but she was happy and doing something she loved. She wished they could accept that.

She watched Dean laughing about something Sam said, and she wondered what her parents would think of him. She'd been dating him for seven months and had never introduced him to them. Part of the reason was time. Both she and Dean worked so much that, when they did have time for each other, she didn't want to spend those precious hours enduring disapproving stares and snide remarks from her parents.

Then there was the fact that, to her parents, he would be blue-collar, a mechanic, a high-school dropout. She couldn't stomach the thought that they would look down on him, think that he wasn't good enough for her, that she was yet again not living up to her full potential.

Of course, maybe she was underestimating Dean. He had so much cocky self-confidence and charisma, he could probably charm the pants off of her Aunt Claire, who was a Methodist minister.

She watched him as he checked the hot dog buns on the grill, admired the faint cleft in his chin, his chiseled features. He sort of reminded her of James Dean, had that same air of toughness and mystery and heart-stopping good looks. He could be gruff and a smart-ass sometimes, but underneath all that, he could be compassionate and sensitive and loving.

The way he watched out for Sam was touching and endearing and might seem out of character to someone who didn't know him, but she sensed that when Dean loved someone, he gave it his all. He wasn't protective of Sam because of his disability because Sam could obviously take care of himself. No. It went a lot deeper than that.

Although she didn't know much about Dean and Sam's father, she had gleaned enough just from getting to know both of them and hanging out with them that Dean had been the one stable, constant figure in Sam's life, that he had always been there for Sam and looked out for him, even when they were young kids.

Sure, Dean took an older-brother delight in ribbing and teasing Sam often, but he was also proud of Sam like a parent would be, and God help anyone that was ever a threat to Sam. Dean had a dark undercurrent to him, and Heather sometimes got the vibe that he was sort of dangerous, although he'd never done anything to make her think that.

That intangible darkness she occasionally felt in him didn't scare her, though. She found it sort of exciting, and it was part of what attracted her to him, aside from the fact that he was funny, smart, a gentleman, and drop-dead gorgeous. His long eyelashes alone were enough to make any woman drool, both because any girl would kill to have them and also because they somehow added to his masculinity, made the contrast of the hard, symmetrical planes of his face more noticeable.

She studied him for a moment and smiled to herself. She'd gone with him the other day to Supercuts to get his hair cut—he always kept his dark-blond hair short and neat, the complete opposite of Sam—and the girl cutting his hair had actually asked him if he curled his eyelashes. Dean, of course, had been horrified.

He caught her looking at him and held her gaze, bringing her out of her reverie. He had taken off his sunglasses, and there were little crinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes. Eye color was the only physical feature that both he and Sam seemed to share.

"What are you smiling about, Heather?" he asked as he bent over the fire, taking off the buns and putting them on a paper plate and then adding a frank to each one. He put one on a plate by itself and handed it to TJ.

"Nothing," Heather answered with a faint smile, still remembering the look on his face after the hairdresser's comment.

He eyed her for a moment as if trying to figure out what she was thinking, and then he cut his gaze subtly over to TJ, who was putting mustard on the hot dog Dean had just handed to her.

TJ had been a little distracted, watching Sam closely. They were all in a sort of half-circle on the blanket, sitting near the fire. The sun had been covered by clouds, and it had gotten a little chilly. Sam couldn't feel the heat from the fire on his legs, and they all kind of helped him watch to make sure he didn't accidentally burn his skin, even though his legs weren't really that close. Heather knew from her paramedic training that a severe burn could easily happen because he couldn't sense the pain, and it could take months to heal.

Dean slipped a frank onto a bun for Heather, then one for Sam, and then made one for himself.

"Mm," said TJ, chewing. She looked at Sam and swallowed. "This is really good. Tastes like the real thing. Are these the same Tofu Pups you always buy?"

Sam furrowed his brow a little. "Yeah. As far as I know. I grabbed the same ones I always do."

"Does yours taste different?" she said, eyeing his bun.

"No. Same wet, mushy cardboard taste as always."

TJ narrowed her eyes and scrutinized her hot dog, pulling it out of the bun to get a better look. "Dean! You gave me one of the _real _weenies!"

"Oh?" said Dean with angelic innocence. "I'm so sorry, TJ. I didn't realize it."

She threw the wiener at him, but he dodged it.

A medium-sized stray dog that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere snagged the fallen wiener a little distance behind Dean and sucked it down in one big gulp before skulking off.

No one else seemed to notice it besides Heather, and she wondered if it was a dog that had escaped from the dog part of the beach, where dogs were allowed to run around freely. Dogs weren't allowed on this part of the beach until the evening, and then only on a leash.

"You're so full of it. You did it on purpose," TJ accused. She screwed up her face in a look of disgust and drawled, "Ew! I just ate lips and assholes from a cow and probably nine other types of farm animals!"

Sam and Heather both snickered, and Dean rolled his eyes. "TJ, you grew up on a farm. I can't believe a hot dog wiener freaks you out."

"Humans aren't meant to eat cows, Dean. Our bodies can't process beef properly."

Dean looked skeptical. "Are you kiddin' me? Human bodies weren't meant to process that fake shit that comes in a vegetarian hot dog, either. That stuff _smells_ like lips and assholes and makes Sam's farts reek worse than they normally do."

"Dean!" yelled Sam in aggravation, forehead wrinkling.

Dean waggled his brows.

TJ rolled her eyes, but there was a faint curve to her mouth as if she were holding in a smirk. TJ and Dean sparred with each other all the time like this, and he loved teasing her almost as much as he loved teasing Sam. TJ, of course, gave as good as she got.

Heather envied TJ in that respect, the way she was so at ease with people, never seemed shy, the way all guys seemed completely comfortable with her. It wasn't just guys, though. _Everyone_ loved TJ, including Heather, and she felt lucky to have TJ as a friend.

Heather had never had trouble getting boyfriends, but she'd always found it hard to get close to them. It always seemed like they were a little intimidated by her for some reason and couldn't quite be themselves around her. It always made her feel the same way in return, a little shy, a little nervous. It was like, once past the initial contact and flirt, she was at a loss as to how to proceed, and her relationships always stalled at some point.

Dean was the first guy she'd ever been close to, and, even with him, he was holding something back, wouldn't quite let her in. She watched scenes like this play out with Dean, Sam, and TJ all the time, and while she loved all three of them, she always felt a little like the outsider.

Dean looked at her. "How do your lips and assholes taste, Heather?"

She appreciated the fact that he was trying to include her, and she squirted some mustard on her hot dog and took a bite. "Mm. Best lips and assholes I've had in a long time. I think I'm getting just a hint of maybe some chicken feet, too," she said, as if she were a judge on _Top Chef_.

Everyone chuckled except TJ, who was feigning annoyance. "Dean, give me one of those tofu weenies this instant—and I want a new bun, too."

Dean shrugged and handed her a new bun and Tofu Pup. "Here you go, sweetheart. By the way, I love it when you say 'weenie.'"

"_You're_ a weenie," she shot back.

Dean smirked. "I've been called worse."

Heather shared a look with Sam.

He sort of halfway rolled his eyes and gave her a crooked, dimpled smile. He was so different from Dean—more serious, more cerebral—but no less charming or handsome. Heather could see why TJ was head-over-heels for him. Heather felt a connection to him, like they had to stick together to put up with Dean and TJ's antics, had to be the grown-ups.

Once TJ finally had a hot dog to her liking, Dean settled down with his own. He held it up like he was in a TV commercial and waggled his brows. "Offal. It's what's for dinner."

TJ rolled her eyes again.

In the next instant, the stray dog that Heather had noticed earlier flew through the air like a bolt of lightening and snatched Dean's hot dog, bun and all, out of his hand.

"Ow!" said Dean, shaking his hand and then looking at it. "What the hell was that?"

"That," said TJ, "was poetic justice."

He grimaced.

Sam was grinning and watching the mutt, which was a few feet in front of their beach blanket, out of reach of any humans. "I think it was a wiener-seeking missile."

Heather eyed the dog. It was medium in size and had the bearded muzzle and sort of stocky body of a terrier with smooth, floppy ears, pronounced brow, and coloring like a chocolate Labrador. There were some traits that reminded her of maybe an Australian Shepherd, too, like the "eyeliner" around its eyes and their light color.

Heather knew a lot about dog breeds because, as a child and even into her teens, she'd always dreamed of having a dog. She used to pore through books looking at the different kinds of breeds and reading about their various traits, trying to decide what kind she would get. Of course, it had never happened. Her parents said they didn't have time for a dog, that they were all gone too much of the time, and Heather had finally come to the realization that they were right. A dog needed a lot of attention and care.

The dog had run a safe distance away and was hunkered down eating its prize. It watched them warily, its mid-length, pointy tail wagging nervously, clearly ready to bolt if they pursued.

"It ate the frank TJ threw at Dean a second ago, too," said Heather.

"Well, it looks like it's definitely a Heinz 57 as far as breeds go," said TJ. "It's kind of cute, though."

"Yeah. Cute," said Dean. "It almost took my friggin' hand off."

"It makes me miss my hound dog Elliott back in Kentucky."

Dean rolled his eyes. "What kind of name is 'Elliott' for a dog? Is he gay?"

"_No_," said TJ with vexation. "I got him when he was a puppy, right after I saw that movie E.T. on cable." She stuck her index finger out, pointing it slowly and tentatively at Dean, and said in her best munchkin-alien voice, "El-li-ott."

Dean's face scrunched in a comical look, and Sam and Heather both laughed.

"There!" shouted a male voice in the distance.

They all turned to see the burly, blond lifeguard that had rented Sam the beach wheelchair and another man wearing a beige uniform, carrying a dogcatcher pole with a loop on the end for putting around an animal's neck. They were jogging toward the mutt, obviously intent on capturing it.

The man in the beige uniform, who had black hair, beady eyes, and a pock-marked face, said, "Don't worry, folks. I'm from the San Diego County Department of Animal Services. We've had reports this little bast—er, dog has been a nuisance for several days. I'll have him out of your way in just a minute."

"Good riddance," said Dean under his breath.

Sam frowned at him. "Dean, it was just hungry."

The dog, who had wolfed down the hot dog and bun, began to growl, rear end up in the air, tail wagging furiously. Its chest was low to the ground, and its paws were out in front. It was obviously ready to spring and make a run for it if the need arose.

The dogcatcher approached him cautiously, dog treat in hand, trying to entice him. "Nice puppy. It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt ya."

Sam's brow furrowed. "What's gonna happen to it?"

"It's a him," the lifeguard answered. "He escaped from Ronnie here," he said, indicating the dogcatcher, "like, a week ago when Ronnie caught him, and he's been lurking around the beach, stealing food from picnickers ever since. I guess he'll go to the county animal shelter, right?" He looked to Ronnie for confirmation.

Ronnie gave a curt nod.

"Hopefully, someone will adopt him," the lifeguard added.

Ronnie snorted. "Not likely. This one's a troublemaker. I can already tell he's got personality problems."

Sam glanced at the dog, his face unreadable. "I'll adopt him."

Dean's brows went up in surprise. "Excuse me? Roommate here," he said, pointing to himself. "Don't want a dog."

"Dean, they'll probably euthanize him," said Sam with soulful eyes.

Ronnie eyed the beach wheelchair and then Sam's legs. "It's a hassle to take care of a dog, especially if you're crippled. You'll have to register him with the county, get a license, take him to the vet and get him checked out, probably vaccinated and neutered, not to mention feed him. Plus, a hyper animal like this one, he'll need to be _walked_ regularly." The cynical twist to the dogcatcher's mouth implied he obviously thought Sam wouldn't be able to do that.

Sam breathed out slowly and his jaw tightened a little, but he didn't say anything, as if he were used to people underestimating what he was capable of.

Heather couldn't believe how ignorant some people were. There was nothing about Sam's disability that would make him unable to take care of a dog. He could pour food and water into bowls, pet, love, play with, and take a dog for a walk just like any able-bodied person. He would just do it from his wheelchair.

Dean's eyes glinted with anger. "You know, Sam. Maybe you're right. Let's adopt it."

The dog had lifted his head a bit, tilting it to one side and then the other, like he was trying to figure out what the humans were talking about. Most of his wiry beard was tan in color, but there was a white patch under his nose that looked like a milk mustache.

Ronnie shook his head, skeptical. "Well, it's no skin off my back. It's up to you, but you gotta catch the little mongrel first."

Sam gave the dogcatcher a determined look and then scooted himself toward the front of the blanket, nearer to the dog.

Always the practical one, Heather felt a little uneasy. "Sam, you don't know anything about this dog. He could be sick or have rabies or something."

"He doesn't," Sam replied with certainty, focusing on the dog.

Heather looked at Dean. He shook his head, giving her a look that told her to let it go.

TJ looked tense, but she didn't say anything.

Eyes still on the dog, Sam reached his hand out in the general direction of TJ. "Somebody give me a frank—a real one," he added, shooting a look at TJ that held a trace of humor.

She poked her cheek with her tongue, making her mouth quirk, and did as he asked, handing him one of the wieners.

He tore off a piece of it and held his hand out to the dog, offering it to him. "Come here, boy. It's okay. Come here."

The dog looked at the piece of food and licked his chops. He took a step toward Sam, but then eyed the lifeguard and the dogcatcher warily and retreated.

"It's okay, boy," said Sam. "Come on. I won't hurt you."

Again, the dog took a step forward but then abruptly stopped and sat down in frustration. It was obvious he wanted the piece of meat but was still afraid. He gave a small whine and fidgeted a little where he sat, his anguish and indecision almost human-like.

He was so cute that Heather's earlier fears that he might be sick began to fade. He certainly didn't act like a vicious, rabid dog. On the contrary, he was sort of comical.

Sam smiled. "It's okay, boy. I promise I won't hurt you." His voice was gentle, and, although it was unlikely the dog understood what Sam was saying, it took a step forward.

The dogcatcher shifted on his feet and sighed, as if he were getting bored.

The dog was distracted by the man's movement and retreated again.

Sam looked at the two men. "He's afraid of you. Could you two stand farther away, please?" It was said politely, but there was no mistaking the command in his tone.

The lifeguard stepped several feet back willingly, but the dogcatcher's manner was more surly. However, he finally did as Sam requested.

"Thanks," said Sam, and he turned his attention back to the dog.

The dog had watched the humans with something like curiosity, and, to Heather, it almost looked like he relaxed a little after the lifeguard and dogcatcher moved farther away.

Sam made a show of holding out the food again, making sure the dog had a good view of it. "It's okay, boy. Come here."

Tentatively, the dog took a step toward Sam.

"That's it. Come on."

Another step forward.

"Come here, boy. Come here. It's okay."

Finally, the dog cautiously took the last few steps, closing the distance between himself and Sam, stuck his head out, sniffed, and took the piece of meat from Sam's fingers. He didn't stick around, though. He quickly trotted a few feet away and sat down.

"Good boy," said Sam. "That's a good boy." Sam tore off another piece of the frank and held it toward the dog. "Want some more?"

The dog turned in an agitated circle and then barked, clearly wanting more but still timid.

Sam laughed, and Heather found herself, along with TJ and Dean, laughing with him.

"Come here, boy. It's okay. You can have more."

This time, the dog seemed to make up his mind and approached Sam with more confidence. He took the proffered meat from Sam's fingers, and this time he sat down in front of Sam, waiting for more.

Sam fed him the rest of the frank, and once the dog was finished eating, Sam carefully held out his fist for the dog to smell.

The dog gave it a sniff, tail wagging intermittently.

Sam slowly began to scratch the dog's chest.

The dog's eyes suddenly looked heavy-lidded, like he was enjoying it, and then he lowered his head, offering it to Sam.

Sam was smiling, deep dimples in his cheeks, and he scratched the top of the dog's head and rubbed his ears. "Good boy. That's a good boy."

Heather felt a lump in her throat, and a little moisture welled in her eyes.

Dean saw her and rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

She laughed, knowing he felt the same but would never show it. She shrugged. "I cry when I watch the Olympics. What can I say?"

He reached over and gently squeezed the back of her neck affectionately, and she felt her body respond to his touch, to the weight and warmth of his hand.

TJ eased up behind Sam and put her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder, grinning. "You're like The Beastmaster."

"More like Heidi," muttered Dean.

"Looks like you've got yourself a dog," said the lifeguard.

The dog licked Sam's face, as if in agreement.

Sam laughed and petted the scruff on the back of the dog's neck.

TJ drew back from Sam's shoulder, making a face. "Ew, somebody needs a doggy breath mint and a bath."

The dogcatcher folded his arms and gave Sam a doubtful look. "You sure you wanna do this? They have dogs for cripples like you, and they teach 'em to do stuff for you, too."

Dean stood up. "Look, pal—"

"Is that so?" said TJ, interrupting Dean. She eyed the dogcatcher with contempt. "Then maybe you should check and see if they train dogs for morons. Or, better yet, maybe they could train a jackass for you. That'd probably be more appropriate."

The dogcatcher gave her a dirty look. "What's your problem? Am I not being PC enough for you?"

"TJ, don't," Sam said. "It's okay."

The look on her face said she disagreed, but she didn't say anything else.

Sam shifted his eyes to Dean and shook his head.

Dean clearly wanted to put his two cents in, but he folded his arms over his chest and settled for staring down the dogcatcher.

The lifeguard, who looked embarrassed, said, "Let's go, Ronnie. Looks like you're not needed here after all."

Ronnie looked reluctant to go and had to have the last word. He looked at Sam. "I need to see your driver's license and take down your name and address. I'm going to check in a few days, and if I don't see you registered as this dog's owner in the computer, I'm going to fine you for interfering with an officer of San Diego County in the line of duty."

Anger radiated from Dean. "You gotta be kiddin' me!"

Ronnie held out his hand toward Sam, wiggling his fingers. "Driver's license, or the dog comes with me."

The mutt growled a warning low in his throat.

Sam was calm. "I don't drive, yet."

Heather knew Sam was close to buying a car of his own, but he hadn't saved up quite enough money for it, and he stubbornly refused to let Dean or TJ modify their cars so he could drive them. Because of that, he hadn't really needed a driver's license since he'd moved to San Diego. He took the bus.

There was a scornful twist to the dogcatcher's thin lips. "Do you have a California ID card?"

"Yes." Sam looked at TJ, since she was nearest to the beach bags.

She found Sam's wallet in their bag and handed it to him.

He fished out his ID and reached up to hand it to Ronnie, who was looming over him.

Ronnie took out a cell phone and typed in Sam's info before handing the ID back to Sam. "Just make sure you get him registered. If _I_ ever come across him again and he ain't tagged, I'll tranquilize his ass and put him on death row. Am I clear?"

"Yes."

Heather admired Sam's self-control. He was always so stoic about everything, and she'd never seen him lose his temper—no small feat with Dean as an older brother.

"Let's _go_," pressed the lifeguard, and he and the dogcatcher turned and left.

"What a dick," said Dean as he watched them walk away.

TJ bristled. "I can't believe he said that."

"Just let it go," said Sam quietly.

Trying to diffuse some of the tension, Heather said, "So, what are you going to name him, Sam?"

Dean's tone was sarcastic. "How about Cujo or Jaws?"

Sam ignored Dean and looked pensive for a moment, rubbing the dog's ears.

The dog sighed in contentment.

"I don't know. How about 'Rocket,' since he flew through the air like one and stole Dean's hot dog?"

TJ smiled with delight. "I love it. It's perfect." She reached over Sam's shoulder and petted the dog. "Hi, Rocket. Nice to meet you."

Rocket didn't seem to have a problem with the name, and he rolled on his back and sighed with ecstasy as TJ and Sam rubbed his belly.

_**TBC**_

_**Need I say it? REVIEWS, PLEASE! Love you guys. :)  
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	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: All right, guys. These first two chapters are a lot of setup, so I apologize if we're getting off to a slow start. Not a lot happens in this chap, just some insight into some of the characters. So, if you're sticking with me, thanks! It gets better (at least, I think so). _**

**_There's a sex scene in this chap, so I'M GIVING IT AN M RATING. As some of you readers know from my last story, I will denote the scene with horizontal lines, so if some of you are not comfortable with sex scenes, DON'T read between the lines. Send me a PM if you feel you missed something, and I'll fill in any holes, although I don't really think you'll be missing much._**

**_There is also a scene where one of the characters talks about something tragic with a child which might be difficult to read.  
><em>**

**_Also, I should have done this last time, and I want to give credit where credit is due: Thanks ever so much to my betas sallyloveslinus and skzb, who took time out of their busy schedules to help me out and did a superb job. I always make last-minute changes before I post, so any mistakes are all mine. Last but not least, thanks to coolhan08 for your technical advice and Lilac Elf for letting me bounce plot ideas off of you. You guys are all AWESOME!  
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**Chapter 2**

Sam was sitting in the middle of the fake-leather, black sofa in his apartment petting Rocket, who was lying on one side of him, head resting on his paws and tilted a little toward Sam. It had been a month since Sam had brought him home, and Rocket had settled in as if he owned the place.

TJ was sitting next to Sam on the other side, her head on Sam's shoulder and her bare feet plopped next to his Adidas-clad ones on the coffee table. He was wearing his leg braces under his jeans and had been wearing them for several hours. Since he couldn't feel them, they never bothered him or felt uncomfortable. He had to watch out for pressure sores, but he had special sock-like covers he put on his legs before putting the braces on that helped protect his skin.

He wore the braces a lot around the apartment, sometimes even all day if he wasn't going out somewhere, but it was still more practical to use his chair when he wasn't at home. He started to get tired after ten or fifteen minutes of walking with his braces because it took a tremendous amount of energy and really taxed his upper body.

He had his arm loosely around TJ, idly rubbing her wrist with his thumb. They were watching a Mexican pro soccer game, Chivas versus Club América, a long-standing rivalry. The commentators on the TV spoke Spanish, and TJ had no clue what was going on. Sam interpreted what the commentators said using his limited Spanish and explained the rules to her because she had never played soccer, although she'd played many other sports growing up in Kentucky.

She was tall for a girl—nearly six feet tall—and it was one of the things Sam found attractive about her. She had been something of a tomboy, but it had been more because of her size rather than an actual desire on her part to play sports.

She was a scientist at heart and had just begun the molecular biology master's program at San Diego State. She could spend hours studying things like microbial molecular genetics and molecular biology of eukaryotes. Sam considered himself pretty well-read, but he had no idea, really, what any of that was, even after TJ had tried to explain it to him.

For TJ, her height had been a source of angst. She'd told him once that she felt like an Amazon, and he knew it had been one of the contributing factors for why she'd developed bulimia—bulimia with anorexic tendencies, to be exact. She had almost died because of her eating disorder, and it was something she still struggled with.

Every time he thought of what she'd been through last spring—the two-and-a-half-week hospital stay, the depression, the physical and emotional pain—it made him feel protective of her, made him want to erase it all away. He wanted to show her how much he loved her in the same way she helped him deal with the trials of his disability and made him feel normal, strong, and loved.

Other than the occasional question about the soccer game, she had been quieter than usual, and he had a feeling something was bothering her. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He knew that wasn't true. Her brain was always on overdrive. "Let me guess. You have visions of DNA, RNA, and protein biosynthesis dancing in your head?"

She made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. "No."

"You're going to probe, blot, and clone a metazoa to create a polymerase chain reaction so a vector can replicate a plasmid?"

She laughed, and her whole body shook with it. "That made absolutely no sense."

"I know," he replied with a grin. "I just strung together a bunch of words I've seen in your textbooks." When she had stopped laughing, he kissed the top of her head and repeated gently, "Tell me what you're thinking."

"It's dumb."

He tightened his arm around her in reassurance. "Tell me."

She hesitated again.

"Teej, you know that I love you no matter what. You can tell me anything."

Still, she was quiet. After a moment, though, she cleared her throat and said, "You know I've been doing better, right? I mean, I've been talking to Caitlin like you suggested, trying not to be so rigid about my diet."

Caitlin was her ED counselor and had been working with TJ for several months since she'd gotten out of the hospital. Sam wondered where this was going. "Yes, I've noticed. Is that a bad thing?"

She sighed. "My jeans don't fit anymore. They're too tight. I had to buy two new pairs yesterday."

For Sam, it was a relief to hear because it meant that she had started to gain weight again. She had reached the minimum of her supposed healthy weight range several months ago, but, to him, she had still seemed too thin. She'd been obsessive about staying there, not going a pound over, sticking to a strict, extremely "healthy" diet to the point that it had scared him, and he'd mentioned it to her, had encouraged her to tell her counselor about it.

He was all for eating healthy, but he wasn't held prisoner by it like TJ sometimes seemed to be. In the last month, she'd been better, was more lax about it, and it must be why she'd gained more weight. He understood, though, that gaining a few pounds was a big deal to her and could be a very negative thing in her eyes.

Her voice suddenly sounded thick, like she was on the verge of tears. "I know it's stupid, but..."

"No, it's not."

She gave a frustrated huff. "Yes, it is. It's like I'm starting all over."

"Look how far you've come, TJ."

"I know it looks like it, but have I? I gain a few pounds, go up a jeans size, and it's like these months of therapy with Caitlin have been for nothing. All the feelings of failure are back, crowding my mind. It makes me wanna stop eating."

His blood ran cold, and he didn't speak for a minute. It was the thing he feared most, that she would relapse and get sick again; and what if no one could save her the next time? He wanted to say the right thing here, but he wasn't sure what that was.

"It's okay. I didn't mean to scare you," she said, as if she'd read his mind. "I won't."

He swallowed. "You won't what?"

"Stop eating."

He was tense, still searching for the right words.

"It's just so—I mean, good Lord, Sam. Am I gonna have to fight this damn eating disorder forever? Is it ever gonna get easier?"

"Yes," he said with certainty. "You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you can talk about it now. Before, you hid it from everyone, buried it inside you."

She didn't say anything.

"The fact that you're talking about it this time—that's huge. You told Caitlin; you told me. You're letting us share it with you, letting us help you fight it, and its hold on you isn't as strong."

He cupped her chin with his hand, lifting her face where he could see it, making sure he had her full attention. "It feeds on your shame, TJ, but you have nothing to be ashamed of, especially if you don't hide it."

Her lips were pressed together, chin trembling, and a few tears overflowed onto her cheeks.

He looked into her eyes. They were so beautiful, a warm brown with long, dark lashes. "You'll beat it." He swallowed a lump in his throat, feeling a surge of emotion. "But I can't—I don't wanna lose you. Just promise you won't shut me out, that you'll always talk to me when you have feelings like this."

She hastily wiped her cheeks. "Sorry for the waterworks."

"Promise me, TJ."

She nodded, wiping away more tears. "I promise."

He touched his lips to hers and then began to explore with his tongue, tasting a salty tear that had glossed over the corner of her mouth. She opened up to him, and he relished the connection to her and hoped she could feel how much he loved her.

Rocket suddenly shook obnoxiously. His coat made a sort of flapping noise, his collar jingled, and he let out a little whine.

TJ and Sam pulled away from each other, gently breaking their kiss, and looked at him.

He had a wiry, tan muzzle like a terrier that usually reminded Sam of a beard, but it was now flattened on one side because he'd been lying on it. He looked at Sam with an air of expectancy, oblivious to how silly he looked.

Sam scratched his chest. "I'm not gonna kiss you, Rocket."

TJ gave a small giggle and reached over and scratched Rocket between his ears.

He gave a dramatic, contented sigh.

He got along great with Sam, TJ, and Heather—when Heather was there—but he hadn't done anything to ingratiate himself with Dean. Among other things, he had snaked several meals-in-the-making off the counter before Dean could even finish whatever he was cooking or whatever sandwich he was making. No matter what Dean did to put the food out of the dog's reach, Rocket would leap up and steal it or jump onto the counter when Dean wasn't looking.

Rocket had been a good name for him because he had an incredible ability to launch himself from ground zero to several feet in the air without needing to make a running start. He was an excellent Frisbee dog and regularly put on a show whenever Sam took him for a romp at the dog park not far from the apartment.

While there was no doubt that Rocket still needed to learn some manners and could sometimes be a little too hyper, Sam worked with him whenever he had time and took him for walks every day, which helped to alleviate some of Rocket's boredom and made him less apt to get into mischief. Rocket was, for the most part, a good dog, and Sam was glad that he had rescued him from the dogcatcher.

Sam had done as Ronnie the Douche Bag ordered and had immediately gotten Rocket licensed with the county and had also taken him to the vet to get his shots. Rocket had apparently been someone's dog at some point, because he had the telltale scar that showed he'd been neutered, but the vet had said that she saw that a lot with strays. The owners liked the dogs and took care of them when they were cute puppies, but when they got older and the new wore off, they got dumped, especially if they were mischievous and rowdy like Rocket could sometimes be.

The vet had estimated that Rocket was close to a year in age, maybe a little older, and had confirmed Heather's guess that he was probably a mix between a terrier and a Lab, judging by his bearded muzzle and his Labrador-like ears. The Aussie Shepherd showed in his light-blue eyes and his ability to jump and run like Superman.

For the most part, he was a smart dog and easy to train, except for when it came to Dean. It was like he did whatever he could to provoke Dean at every turn.

As if on cue, Dean, who was in the kitchen, shouted angrily, "Son of a bitch! Rocket, you little shit!"

Sam shared a look with TJ and then eyed Rocket, who was sitting tall with his ears pricked and alert—as alert as they could get, anyway, since they were pretty floppy.

Sam sighed. "What did you do, now?"

Rocket tilted his head, looking as if he was trying to figure out what Sam was asking.

Dean walked into the living area carrying a mangled work boot, brows arched in a vee of fury. "Second pair, Sam! This is the second pair of my work boots that little demon has destroyed."

"It's only one boot, Dean. Not the pair."

Dean rolled his eyes. "How does one fucking boot help me, Sam! He chewed the right boot of my last pair, too." He focused his wrath on Rocket. "The least you could have done was chew the left one this time, you little monster. Now I've got two left feet!"

A snort escaped from TJ. "That's nothing new."

Sam cringed inwardly. This was not a good time for TJ to tease Dean.

Dean glared at her, and she pressed her lips together, probably to hold in a smile or to keep from saying something she shouldn't.

"I'm sorry, Dean," said Sam. "I'll buy you another pair."

"Damn right you will. Today. I've gotta have a pair for work tomorrow."

Rocket had been watching the exchange between the humans with confusion, but he finally decided on an action. He jumped off the sofa and trotted over to Dean, rearing up and putting his paws on Dean's leg. He then licked the fingers of Dean's hand that wasn't holding the chewed-up boot.

Sam was amazed that Rocket had been able to utterly annihilate a steel-toed boot. Maybe he should have named him Jaws after all.

Rocket was wagging his tail and seemed to be fearless of Dean. Weren't dogs supposed to have some kind of doggy sense that told them when a person was pissed? He was either a really brave dog or not as smart as Sam thought.

Dean stared at Rocket for a moment in irritation and disbelief. "Rocket, off!" For good measure, he nudged Rocket's chest with his knee, causing Rocket to lose his balance and fall down.

Rocket looked like his feelings had been hurt and skulked off under the coffee table.

"Ah, Dean," said TJ, "he was trying to say he's sorry."

Dean snorted. "More like he's sampling me, trying to decide if I'd make a good dinner." Dean wiggled his fingers toward Sam in a gimme gesture. "Come on, bitch. Fork out the dough."

"Now?"

"Yes, Sam. Now_._ It's after five o'clock. I have to go today before the store closes. _I need the boots tomorrow for work_," he reiterated with annoyance.

"Fine. My wallet is on the nightstand in my room."

"Fine," said Dean as he sank down onto the twenty-year-old, mauve-and-blue-plaid recliner that sat adjacent to the Salvation Army sofa.

Sam raised his brows.

Dean looked pointedly at the watch on his wrist. "Today, Sam. It's Sunday. Everything closes early."

"Hello? Paralyzed here," said Sam, pointing to himself, implying Dean should go get the money out of his wallet.

Dean raised a brow. "How long you been sitting there, Sam? Have you done a pressure release lately?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes. I'm not gonna take care of your ass—literally—if you get another pressure sore on it."

Dean was referring to the five months it had taken Sam to get over the last pressure sore he'd gotten in the first year after his SCI. He'd gotten it because he hadn't been careful, hadn't been doing what he was supposed to do to prevent it. It had taken months for it to heal, but he'd been diligent ever since about trying to prevent it from happening again.

He was supposed to shift positions or do pressure lifts—lifting his butt up frequently—in order to relieve the pressure on his skin, since he sat for long periods of time, and Dean was right. He should probably get up and move around because he'd been on the couch with TJ for a while. However, it pissed him off that Dean had mentioned it in front of her, even though she knew all about it.

"You know," Sam said, trying to keep his temper under control, "Rocket wouldn't keep chewing up your boots, Dean, if you didn't leave them lying around all over the apartment. I almost tripped over one the other day when I was on my crutches and nearly broke my neck. Why don't you put them in your friggin' closet where they belong?"

Dean leaned forward, obviously angry. "Because I was here first, Sam. It was never a problem until you adopted the hell spawn of Benji."

"What does Rocket have to do with me almost falling because of your stupid boots? It _was_ a problem before. You can't leave shit lying around like that, Dean. It gets in the way of my chair, too."

A flash of guilt crossed Dean's face, but it was quickly replaced by a scowl. "I'm sorry about leaving the boots out, but that doesn't erase the fact that the damn dog is a nuisance. How many times has he stolen food off the counter...in the kitchen...where it's supposed to be? Is that my fault, too?"

TJ piped up. "Would you two just stop?" She looked at Dean. "_You_ stop leaving stuff lying around, and _you,_" she pointed at Sam, "teach your dog some manners."

Dean glared at Sam, his arms crossed, and Sam glared right back.

TJ rolled her eyes. "I'll go get the wallet." She started rise.

Sam caught her wrist and gently tugged on it, keeping her from getting up. "No," he said, giving Dean a narrow look. "I'll get it."

It was much easier for him to get up onto his feet than it had been when he'd first gotten his leg braces. After a lot of practice with his physical therapist Karen and continuing to strengthen his upper body, he'd gotten pretty adept at standing up and sitting down and getting around with his braces and forearm crutches.

He lifted his legs off the coffee table with his hands, putting his feet on the floor, and scooted to the end of the couch. Then he felt for the levers on his braces under his jeans and flipped them over into locking mode.

His crutches were propped in the corner where the back of the sofa met the wall. They were adjusted to his height, were made of titanium, and had a stainless steel, vinyl-covered forearm cuff that wrapped around his forearm and held the crutch in place. He could bend his elbow and didn't have to worry about dropping a crutch if he needed to use his hand.

TJ stood and walked around to where his crutches were. It was a lot easier for him to get up if someone handed the crutches to him after he was standing rather than if he tried to get up holding the crutches himself, although he could do it when he had to.

He pushed his hands down on the sofa cushion, dipping his head toward the floor and lifting his butt up in the air. As he did so, his leg braces started locking into place, keeping his legs from buckling as he stood up. Once his legs were straight, TJ handed him the crutches. He locked his arms in the cuffs and put his hands on the grips, straightening the rest of his body into a stand, and leaned back a little on his heels to make sure the braces were locked in the straightest position. He heard one last metallic click of the braces as he did so.

It felt good—he hardly ever got head rushes anymore when he stood—and he liked the way he felt stable with his hands on the hand grips. They had a special gel on the inside that absorbed shock when he walked and were contoured with finger notches to fit his hand for comfort.

He gave Dean one last annoyed look and made his way toward the hall and his bedroom, swinging his legs through the crutches at a pretty decent pace. He'd found it was more efficient to swing both legs through the crutches at the same time rather than taking individual steps, although he still walked that way sometimes, too, just to feel more like he was really walking.

Sam retrieved his wallet from the nightstand and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans. On his way back to the living room, there was a knock at the front door, right as he was passing by it.

"You gonna get that?" asked Dean.

"Yes, Dean," said Sam, annoyed. "I thought I would, since I'm standing right next to it."

Dean pasted a falsely benign expression on his face.

Sam positioned himself a little to the side of the door so that when he opened it, he wouldn't be in the way, and shifted his weight more onto his right crutch so he could open the door with his left hand. He unlocked and twisted the knob, swinging the door open, and was surprised to look down and see Heather standing in front of him.

She blinked up at him, and she looked as surprised as he was, her light-blue eyes opened wide. She knew, of course, that he walked with his leg braces sometimes, but he hadn't used them around her very often, since she wasn't at their apartment much. He wasn't even sure when the last time was that she'd seen him up and walking. She lived alone, and whenever she and Dean had time for each other, they usually wanted to spend it at her apartment, where they had it all to themselves.

He had forgotten how much taller he was than her because he was usually looking up at her from his wheelchair. Judging by the look on her face, she'd forgotten, too. She wasn't short—she was actually about average height for a girl—but now that he was standing close to her, it was like she had shrunk.

He recovered first and smiled. "Hey, Heather. Come on in."

She smiled, but it looked a little hollow, and she looked exhausted. "Hey, Sam."

He frowned, wondering why she was there, since she was obviously wiped out. She worked in 24-hour shifts as a paramedic, and Dean had mentioned that she was working one starting yesterday. She usually went straight home and crashed after one of them, but, for some reason, she had come to their apartment instead. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved, navy t-shirt, red hair down around her shoulders, and even though there were dark circles under her eyes and she looked haggard, she was still beautiful.

She stepped into the apartment and paused, her mouth quirked to one side in amusement. "I forgot how tall you are."

He grinned. "I forgot how short you are."

This time her smile was the sort of shy, genuine smile he was used to seeing from her. "I guess it's all relative."

"Right."

She walked into the living room.

Although Dean had never been one for public displays of affection, he was obviously surprised and glad to see her, and he got up from the recliner and hugged her, giving her a tender peck on the lips. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be sawing logs by now."

She looked down. "I—I, um, just felt like company tonight."

Dean frowned a little. "Are you okay?"

Her tone was falsely nonchalant. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just wired, I guess. I didn't think I'd be able to go to sleep, so I thought I'd come see what you guys were doing."

Sam crutched over to the end of the sofa and eyed his surroundings before he sat down, making sure his legs wouldn't hit the coffee table, since his braces would still be locked until he released them and could bend his knees again. Once he was sure his feet wouldn't hit anything, he sort of plopped-fell onto the sofa and sat next to TJ, his legs sticking out stiff in front of him. He released his arms from the crutches and leaned them against the wall near him.

She reached over and lifted his feet up for him, ensuring all his weight was off the braces so they would unlock. He flipped the levers on his thighs under his jeans, unlocking the braces and putting them in free mode so he could bend his knees and sit more comfortably.

Rocket deemed it safe to come out from under the coffee table and greet Heather, rearing up and putting his paws on her leg like he had Dean.

She bent down and petted his head, the weary look on her features morphing into delight. She was always glad to see Rocket. "Hey, boy." She crouched down and let Rocket lick her face. "Oh, you're such a good boy."

Dean's mouth was drawn back in disgust. "That's just gross."

Heather looked up at him and then smiled at Rocket. "It's not gross, is it, boy? You're a good kisser." For good measure, she scratched his ears and rested her cheek on his head for a split second, sort of giving him a hug.

Rocket was eating up the attention and gave her another round of licks on her face.

Dean's face softened almost imperceptibly, and his voice held a hint of resignation when he spoke. "He chewed up another one of my boots. I was just about to go out and get another pair. I need them for work tomorrow." He walked over to Sam and reached out his hand. "Money?"

Sam dug his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed Dean his ATM card. "You'll have to get cash. You know my PIN."

Dean took the card without comment and put it in his back pocket. "Heather, you wanna go with me?"

She stood up and suddenly looked a little pale. "Um, I think I'm more tired than I thought. Maybe I can just take a little nap in your room while you're gone?"

Dean walked back over to her and studied her face. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Go ahead. Wake me when you get back."

He bent down and kissed her. "I won't be gone that long."

She nodded.

After Dean was gone, she stood staring at the front door, looking a bit lost.

TJ frowned at Sam in concern and then looked at Heather. "Hey, girl. Can I get you something? You want some coffee or a Coke? If you're hungry, I can make you a sandwich."

Heather turned to her, looking dazed. It took her a second to answer, but TJ's question finally seemed to register. "Thanks, TJ, but I'm good right now. I'm really tired. I think I'm just going to try to get some rest."

TJ nodded.

Heather swallowed hard, and Sam could swear it looked like tears welled in her eyes. Her voice sounded thick when she spoke. "Just make sure Dean wakes me when he gets back."

"Right. We will," said Sam.

She disappeared down the hallway, and a second later they heard the door to Dean's bedroom closing quietly.

"What do you think is up with her?" asked TJ.

"I don't know. Maybe she had a rough shift."

"Yeah. It's so hard to get her to open up sometimes. She and Dean are like two peas in a pod in that respect. He still hasn't told her anything about the hunting?"

Sam clenched his jaw. "No. He hasn't."

It was a sore subject with Sam, both because he thought Heather deserved to know about Dean's past and because he didn't like that Dean was going on the occasional hunt again, usually with no backup. In fact, Dean had exuded a kind of energy today, the kind of energy that signaled he was going on a hunt soon. He hadn't said anything to Sam, but maybe that was because Sam hadn't exactly been supportive the last time Dean had mentioned a hunt.

Sam had thought they were out of the life for good, that Dean was content. Apparently, he'd been wrong.

**XXXXXXXX**

An hour and a half later, Dean walked in the front door of the apartment to see both Sam and TJ sitting on the sofa, leaning forward a little, riveted to the TV.

"What's going on?" he asked, setting the box that held his new work boots onto the glass surface of their '80s dinette table, which was situated near the opening to the kitchen.

"Check this out," said Sam. "There was a huge fifteen-car pileup on I-8 this morning."

Dean sat in the recliner, looking at the carnage on the TV. "Jesus. I was just on the 8, and there's nothing there now."

"Yeah," said TJ. "It happened around nine this morning, and they've got it cleared off. It was awful."

They all watched the footage of crunched up cars and eighteen-wheelers that looked like scrap metal. Ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars were everywhere, and there were bodies lying along the highway covered discreetly with white sheets. The freeway had been shut down for hours, just opening up again about an hour before Dean had gone on his errand.

"_There is no other way to describe the scene here on Interstate 8 other than tragic and gruesome," _said a smartly-dressed, blond, female reporter into the camera. _"Loss of life is estimated to be in the twenties, but there is no definite number as of yet."_

Suddenly, the camera panned to a shot of two paramedics, and, with a jolt, Dean realized one of them was Heather, her unmistakable copper hair glinting in the sun.

"Oh, my Lord, that's Heather!" exclaimed TJ.

Heather and the other guy had obviously been trying to resuscitate one of the victims—a child—and the guy was pulling up a sheet over dark little pigtails. They had obviously been unsuccessful.

Dean couldn't believe the news station was even allowed to show such a thing on TV. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and hated that Heather had been knee-deep in all that horror. He understood all too well the sorrow she must have felt at not being able to save a child. The way she'd been acting when she got there and the empty, shell-shocked look on her face, it all made sense, now.

TJ, Sam, and Dean all looked at each other, it sinking in to all of them what Heather had dealt with that day.

Dean clenched his jaw and got up from the chair, quickly making his way to his bedroom. When he opened the door, he saw Heather lying on her side in his bed facing him, covers pulled tightly up under her chin. Her eyes were wide open, and it was obvious that she hadn't slept a wink.

He went over and sat down on the side of the bed. "I saw it on the news. Why didn't you tell me? I would have stayed with you."

Her eyes had a blank look to them, as if she were numb. She looked down.

He pulled the covers off of her and took her into his arms, noticing she was wearing one of his cotton t-shirts and a pair of his boxers.

She held onto him tightly, but, otherwise, she was completely silent.

"You wanna tell me about it?"

She shook her head.

"You don't have to keep it inside."

At first she didn't move, but then she pulled back from him and played idly with her short fingernails, not looking at him. "It's my job. I see horrible things all the time. I can't let it get to me."

He inhaled a deep breath. How many times had he told himself that?

"I can't be a good paramedic if I freak out at every terrible accident scene."

He cupped her chin and lifted her face so he could see her eyes. "It didn't look like you were freaking out to me, at least not in the shot they showed on the news."

"No, I didn't, but I was barely holding it together, Dean. There was..." She swallowed. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this after all. I thought I was good at it, but..." She trailed off, and her face crumpled.

He drew her into another hug. "Shh," he soothed. "It's okay." He wanted to tell her about his past, that he understood, but he didn't think a two-hour explanation about supernatural creatures and hunting and trying to convince her it was all real was a good idea right now, considering the state she was in. There was also the possibility that she'd think he was a lunatic, and he couldn't face that.

After a moment, she sat back and took in a forceful breath, as if trying to get a hold of herself. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "It's just, there was this little Korean girl. She couldn't have been more than four or five years old. Her parents, her brother and sister—they all died instantly. I could see that she wasn't going to make it. Her—" She stopped abruptly and shook her head, the memory of what she'd seen written on her face, tears spilling from her eyes.

She wiped them away and took another deep breath. "Like I said, it was clear she wasn't going to make it. I wanted to take her in my arms, let her know that she wasn't alone and that someone cared, but it wasn't proper procedure. If, by chance, there was some miracle and she did make it, I couldn't take the risk that she might have a spinal cord injury that moving her might make worse."

She shook her head again. "She never said anything, but she had beautiful dark eyes that followed my every move. I kept talking to her, not really making sense, just a steady stream of things I thought she might like, kid movies and stuff like that. At one point, she grabbed my hand, and I couldn't believe how tight her grip was.

"I couldn't work on her with her holding onto my hand like that, but Pete, the other paramedic that was helping, kept working and told me to just keep talking to her. I knew when—I could see when she was taking her last breaths, and I kissed her on the forehead, and she held on to me, even after—even after she was gone."

Dean was silent, knowing there weren't any words that would make the heartbreak and sadness go away. Only time would make it fade.

"I don't think—I hope she wasn't in any pain. I think she was so far gone that she didn't feel anything." She looked up at the ceiling. "I hope to God I'm right."

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm sure she didn't."

"I don't know if I can do this anymore. I don't think I'm strong enough."

He exhaled. He'd seen things like that since he was a kid, but no matter how much he acted like he was over it on the outside, it was never easy to watch a fellow human die, especially an innocent child. "Heather, you're one of the strongest people I know, and I'd be worried if you didn't feel anything after what you saw today. You're human, and that's part of what makes you good at your job. That little girl didn't need a robot in her last moments. She needed someone with feelings, someone who wouldn't let her die alone."

"There were so many others that did, though—that died alone," she said through her tears. "We couldn't get to them all, Dean. It was like a war zone or something."

She was hurting so much, and he couldn't stand it. He wanted to comfort her somehow, to make it all disappear. He put his hands on her face and turned it up toward him, tenderly kissing her tears away.

She closed her eyes and took a ragged breath.

He made his way to her mouth, chastely at first, not wanting to go any further if she didn't want it, if she was too distraught.

She opened up to him, inviting him in, flicking her tongue over his lips.

* * *

><p>He meant to go slowly, but she became more insistent, pulling him to her and kissing him hard, like she was desperate. She began to pull off first his button-down shirt and then his t-shirt underneath.<p>

He pulled off the t-shirt she was wearing and cupped her breasts with his hands. Then he gently pushed her down against the pillow, kissing her jaw, loving the smell and taste of her, moving down her throat to the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

She was shaking and pulled at the fly of his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them and then pulling them down.

He stopped kissing her for a moment and helped her, hastily pulling off his jeans as she pulled off the pair of his boxers she was wearing.

When they were both naked, he lay on top of her for a moment, relishing her warm skin melding with his, feeling the softness of her beneath him.

She was impatient, though, and grabbed his face between her hands and kissed his mouth greedily, her tongue thrusting and seeking. "I need you, Dean."

Her simple words made him tremble all over, and he felt intoxicated by her. He trailed more kisses down her shoulder until his mouth found her breast, sucking hard on her nipple.

She bucked and pressed against him. "Ah," she breathed.

He suddenly felt her rubbing him with her hand, making him harder than he already was, and he felt a tightness deep within himself, felt himself begin to burn. He pulled her hand away. Tonight was about her, and as good as her touch felt, he didn't want to climax too soon before she was ready.

He moved his hand down between them, feeling the moisture and heat of her, and began to rub her.

She squirmed and writhed and then arched up to meet him. "Dean, please. _Please._"

He put his mouth on hers again, and she seemed to drink him in.

He put his hands on her hips, pressing his body against her, and then found his way inside her. The feel of her all around him nearly drove him mad, but he reined himself in and began to rhythmically rock into her.

She matched his movements until they were in sync, and he could feel her clenching and throbbing until, finally, she gasped, "Oh, yes. Oh, god, Dean. Yes."

His body was pounding now in time with his heart, his blood rushing to that part of his body that made him one with her.

She opened her eyes and stared at him hotly, telling him it was okay to let go, that it was his turn.

He thrust into her then, over and over, until he felt the pressure building within him, until it felt like his heart would pound out of his chest. Finally, he felt the release in waves of pleasure so intense he thought he might go insane.

He moaned deep and low in his throat and dropped his head to her shoulder, still trying to catch his breath, still feeling waves of pleasure ripple through him, like aftershocks from an earthquake.

She held him to her with one hand and traced his back with the fingertips of her other, patiently giving him time to come back to himself.

When his breathing was back to normal and he felt like he could move his shaky arms again, he eased out of her and lay on his back.

She lay on her side, facing him.

* * *

><p>He put his arm around her and pulled her close, and she laid her head on his shoulder and drew idle circles on his chest with her fingers. They were quiet for a few minutes, both of them speechless, still drifting in that world between the intense pleasure they had known and reality.<p>

He turned his face to her and kissed the top of her head, smelling the clean, berry scent of her shampoo, and brushed his fingers through her soft hair.

Her breathing was steady, and he thought she'd fallen asleep, so he was surprised when she said, "I love you, Dean."

She'd said it very quietly, but the words seemed to reverberate through the room and through his soul. The silence afterward was awkward, and he felt guilty that he couldn't say it back.

As if sensing his thoughts, she said, "It's okay. You don't have to say it back. I just wanted you to know."

Jesus. As if that made him feel better. He gave her another lame kiss on the top of her head as an answer.

Did he love her? What he felt for Heather was more intense and sweeter than anything he'd ever felt with Cassie, but that didn't mean it was love. He'd thought he loved Cassie, but he'd been wrong, and, still, she had hurt him more than he'd ever thought possible. Besides, everyone he'd ever loved for sure—his dad, Sam, Mom—ended up either dead or hurt. God help any girl that he ever fell in love with.

He didn't think Winchesters were meant for love. Look at what had happened to his parents. Look at what had happened to Jessica.

Sam had taken a chance again and had fallen hard for TJ, and Dean was happy for him. Sam deserved it after everything he'd been through, but Dean couldn't escape the dark thought that even TJ had almost died, that another few seconds of having the life squeezed out of her by Azazel, and things would be drastically different right now. Dean had encouraged Sam to go for it with TJ, but he sometimes wondered if Sam wasn't playing with fire.

Of course, Sam seemed to be mostly out of the life. He was immersed in college and work, had a normal, boring, safe job doing the books at Shorty's, the restaurant where Dean and TJ had worked and where Heather still moonlighted. It was only rarely that Sam would help Bobby out with some light research in between work, spending time with TJ, and studying his ass off.

Dean hadn't been so lucky. He'd tried to retire. He really had. But the reality was that there were an infinite number of evil fuglies and a very limited number of hunters. He'd now been on three hunts in the last five months, and he'd only taken them because they were cut-and-dried and the hunters who'd asked for his help had been desperate.

He wasn't an idiot, though, and neither was Sam. Even the most innocuous hunt could go wrong, as they both knew all too well. It was on a simple salt-and-burn that Sam's spinal cord had been injured.

Dean was supposed to have gone on a hunt tonight, but he hadn't mentioned it to Sam, not wanting to see the worry on Sam's face and hear him bitch. Besides, it wasn't a solo hunt. It wasn't like he wouldn't have backup. He was just supposed to be an extra pair of eyes and ears for Jerry Reynolds, a hunter who'd been an old friend of their father's. However, Jerry had called while Dean had been out getting new boots and said that he didn't need him after all, that there was another hunter in the area that could help him out.

Dean had been relieved and disappointed at the same time. Although he'd voiced his reluctance to Jerry about helping, the hunter in him had felt a thrill deep inside, a rush of adrenaline that had been a part of him since he'd been a kid on his first hunt. It was like his body naturally prepared for it, like his senses were gearing up to be more alert, his reflexes quicker, in order to face whatever might come his way.

He was glad, now, that Jerry hadn't needed him, considering what Heather had been through that day. She needed him more than Jerry, and he was glad he'd been there to comfort her.

He'd known what she felt, the gut-wrenching pain of watching an innocent die and the feeling of futility that there was nothing that could be done except watch it happen. In some ways, their jobs were similar. They both saved lives and both stared death in the face on a regular basis, just from different ends of the spectrum.

He would tell her about his past eventually, about the occasional hunting he still did, but tonight wasn't the night. She'd been up for twenty-four hours, and he could feel the weight of her body against him as she relaxed, her hand still and resting on his chest, her breathing slow and even as she fell into a deep sleep. She'd been through enough that day.

He would tell her when the time was right. He just wasn't sure exactly when that might be.

_**TBC**_

_**Any reviews would be appreciated. You can even just put a happy face or a sad face, and I'll get the message.  
><strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Thanks to skzb and sallyloveslinus for the awesome beta! Also, the TV station mentioned in this chapter is real, but the news reporter is not.  
><strong>_

**Chapter 3**

TJ watched as Sam pushed himself in his wheelchair through the grass of the dog park, his biceps and triceps working hard. He gripped his wheels in his hands with confidence, thumb and heel of the hand on the tire, long fingers curling over the metal hand rims. Grass was always harder to push through than a smooth surface, but he usually didn't have much problem with it because his arms were so strong, especially if he did a wheelie and kept his front casters and footplate from digging into the turf. He could actually wheel pretty far just on his back wheels, leaning back in his chair, head forward a little to counterbalance and find his center of gravity.

TJ, Sam, Dean, and Rocket were all headed to their favorite tree, and Rocket was bouncing around on his leash in excitement, knowing there would soon be a game of Frisbee in the works. Despite his exuberance, though, he stayed to Sam's left as Sam had trained him. His leash was made of leather and had a loop on one end that Sam put on his wrist so his hands would be free to push his chair.

Rocket got distracted by another dog and forgot himself, running in front of Sam's chair and almost getting his leash tangled in Sam's wheel. Sam stopped and yanked on the leash to get Rocket's attention. "Rocket, heel!" he commanded with a hint of annoyance.

Chastened, Rocket immediately did as Sam said, getting back into position and waiting for Sam to start rolling again.

"Good boy," said Sam, a little tiredness seeping into his voice.

It was a Saturday, and they usually slept in, but he had been unable to this morning and was less energetic than usual. TJ suspected the pain in his legs had reared its ugly head and had kept him from sleeping well.

He'd gotten up around six-thirty when the sun was starting to come up and quietly done his yoga on the floor. She'd watched him through her lashes as she often did. She didn't have a view of him for all of it because the bed was in the way, but she could see enough. She felt kind of guilty for pretending to be asleep, like a voyeur, but it didn't stop her from peeking.

When he did yoga, it was a time for him to get in touch with his body, a private time for him to meditate, to "feel" the paralyzed part of his body and reaffirm to himself that he was still whole; but he was stunning when he did yoga, his moves graceful and powerful. His chest, upper abs, back, and arm muscles were taut and defined, a lesson in what the perfect male anatomy should be, and she couldn't resist the pleasure of witnessing it.

She was in awe of him during these sessions, but she never told him, letting him believe she slept through it. It was her own private meditation, a sort of communion and affirmation of the beauty and resiliency of the human body. She didn't want to do anything to make him self-conscious or ruin the peacefulness and solemnity of the moment for either of them.

There was no doubt she had thoroughly and secretly enjoyed his yoga practice this morning, but she hadn't missed the almost imperceptible grimace on his face sometimes or the intensity with which he had meditated. His legs had been bothering him, and he'd been trying to work through the pain.

She hated with every fiber of her being that he hurt sometimes like that, and there was nothing she could do about it. She sometimes wondered if he shouldn't go back on the pain medication or have it handy for the really bad days, but he'd been adamant, and when Sam made up his mind, there was no changing it. He said it didn't help that much anyway, that he was better off using other methods of pain management.

His legs were thin as a result of muscle atrophy because of his paralysis, but to her they were just as beautiful as the rest of him. They were a part of him, and she loved every inch of him.

The yoga and walking with his leg braces helped with his muscle tone, helped to keep his muscles limber and flexible; and, ironically, even the sometimes annoying spasticity in his legs served a purpose. It kept his muscles from completely wasting away. She was glad he was off the baclofen. It had helped to reduce the spasticity, but it had also made his legs sometimes seem kind of like spaghetti noodles.

His legs got stiff more often now and jiggled more since he'd gotten off the medication, and sometimes it was a pain in the ass for him when his feet wouldn't stay on the footplate of his wheelchair or he inadvertently kicked off a shoe. There was also more of a danger of a rub developing on his skin, especially on his heels and the backs of his legs where they made contact with his chair.

He had to be extra diligent in watching for skin breakdown, but the trade-off was worth it. He no longer felt the side effects of the baclofen, the occasional dizziness, the fatigue, the drowsiness, the headaches, the effect it had on him during sex.

She smiled to herself. To both their delight, Sam had been able to maintain an erection much longer when they made love since he'd gotten off the baclofen and his pain meds. It had enhanced her enjoyment considerably in the "rodeo" department and given him a boost in the stud-quotient department at the same time. Sometimes he could go for a really, really long time...

"Look at that poor young man, Al," said an older lady with a big, gray, bouffant hairdo who was walking by them. She was speaking to her elderly husband and had a pinched look on her face. "I can't believe his friends are just letting him struggle like that. Why don't they push his wheelchair through the grass and help him?" As they walked farther away, she added, "I swear, young people these days just make you wonder."

TJ had been so engrossed in her "rodeo" musings that it took her a second to register what the lady had said, and then she fought a surge of irritation. It was obvious the lady had been speaking loudly on purpose so TJ and Dean would hear.

Dean's mouth tightened into a straight line, and he muttered something about "friggin' Peg Bundy's grandma" under his breath, but he didn't confront her. He'd been through similar instances before, just like TJ had, and knew Sam didn't like to make a big deal of it.

TJ looked at Sam and poked her cheek with her tongue, quirking her mouth, and he gave her a faint smile back. They were used to things like that and tried not to take offense, just ignored it or tried to laugh about it. It was rude, but it stemmed from good intentions, from a desire to help. It was just that a lot of able-bodied people didn't understand that what looked like a struggle to them wasn't one for Sam.

He hated to be pushed in his chair. It was hard to anticipate sometimes how the person pushing it might take a turn or steer, and it often made him feel off balance, like he might fall out. If he needed help, he asked, but many people without a disability were ignorant of that. Sometimes, even if they asked him if he needed help, they would ignore his polite "No thanks" and push him anyway.

Some of them even assumed he couldn't speak for himself. So many times when TJ was with him, people would talk to her and completely ignore him, even if they were talking about something that directly involved his input. It was unbelievable, but it happened all the time. Sam took it all in stride in his usual quiet, dignified way.

When they reached their spot, they checked for any "deposits" that might have been left by a dog and staked their claim on a patch of soft, green grass underneath their favorite tree. Sam flipped the levers on his chair, locking the brakes, and unlooped Rocket's leash from his wrist.

Rocket turned in a circle, growing more excited now that they were getting settled. It meant his game of Frisbee would be soon, although Sam usually took a few minutes to rest after trekking through the grass before they started their game.

Sam pressed on his seat cushion with his hands, scooting his butt forward, and then grabbed his legs at the knees and lifted his tennis shoes off the footplate, putting his feet on the grass. Next, he grabbed the frame of his chair with one hand and put his other palm on the ground, locking his elbow, and lifted his butt in the air. He shifted his weight to the arm that was braced on the ground and carefully lowered himself to the grass, his legs falling to the side.

When he was on the ground, he placed his legs out in front of him. The muscles in his left leg were stiff and contracted and not cooperating very well; it was bent at the knee and wouldn't straighten.

TJ wanted to help him stretch or massage it to work out the kinks, but he didn't ask. She helped him a lot of times with things like that without him asking, but she sort of had an instinct of when that was okay and when it wasn't. She was more careful of it if Dean was around.

It was a weird dynamic. Sam was always more reticent to ask for help when Dean was there, and TJ figured it was some macho, Winchester, guy thing. She also tried not to step on Dean's toes, not wanting him to think she had replaced him. She knew it was hard for him, that his instinct was to automatically step in and help Sam, but they both knew Sam wouldn't like it.

Sam lay back on the grass and rested his arm on his forehead, a sure sign that he was still feeling leg pain along with the aggravation of dealing with the stiffness in his leg.

Dean's features were hard, and TJ surmised he was probably still pissed from Grandma Bundy's comment, not to mention he hated seeing Sam hurting.

Rocket, who had been beside himself just moments ago in anticipation of a game of Frisbee, was suddenly subdued, as if sensing Sam's discomfort. He nudged Sam's cheek with his nose and sniffed. Then he lay down by Sam's side and licked the fingers of Sam's other hand in the grass, as if he were trying to comfort him.

TJ glanced at Dean to see if he'd noticed, and there was an almost imperceptible softening of his features. There was no love lost between Dean and Rocket, but TJ knew Dean couldn't totally hate any creature that loved Sam.

"Come on, you little monster. Let's go play some Frisbee," said Dean.

Rocket's head perked up at the word "Frisbee," and he looked at Dean questioningly, one floppy ear cocked toward him.

Dean rolled his eyes and used the falsely excited tone that humans sometimes used when speaking to dogs. "Frisbee, you little shit? Wanna play Frisbee?"

TJ was sure Rocket didn't understand "little shit," but he clearly understood "Wanna play Frisbee." He jumped up and wagged his tail, looking at Dean with excitement, hardly able to contain himself.

Sam reached out and grabbed the scruff of Rocket's neck, giving it an affectionate squeeze. "Ah, Rocket. You're so fickle."

Rocket ducked his head, looking contrite, and gave Sam an apologetic lick on his cheek. TJ raised her brows, thinking how freaky it was that Rocket sometimes seemed to understand what Sam said.

"Go on, boy," said Sam. "It's okay."

Dean unhooked Rocket's leash from his collar and grabbed the Frisbee out of Sam's wheelchair backpack. Sam's arm was still on his forehead, but he eyed Dean and smiled, dimples making an appearance. "Thanks, Dean."

"Whatever," Dean said grumpily, and walked off with Rocket jumping up and down beside him.

Sam was still smiling when he looked at TJ. She couldn't resist his dimples and leaned over and kissed him on the lips—once, twice, three times—and then pulled away. "Maybe Rocket's starting to grow on Dean."

Sam snorted. "I don't know if I'd go that far, but at least he doesn't wanna shoot him anymore."

She gave a little laugh, and Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position so he could see Dean and Rocket better, absently massaging his leg to try and get the stiffness out.

They sat there for a while, talking about nothing in particular and everything—school, work, Heather and Dean—and watching Dean throw the Frisbee for Rocket. It was really an incredible sight to behold. Rocket soared through the air to heights that were greater than a dog his size—or even one much larger—should be able to accomplish, never failing to catch the Frisbee between his jaws. TJ had been around dogs all her life on her parents' farm, but she'd never seen one with Rocket's capability to jump so high or run so fast.

Sam was six-four when he was standing with his leg braces, and he could stretch out an arm to its full length, high over his head, and hold a toy for Rocket, which had to be well over seven feet in the air, and Rocket could jump from a still position and swipe it from Sam's hand. It was nothing short of mind-boggling. There were very few fences in the world that would ever be able to contain Rocket.

She was so engrossed in marveling at Rocket's skill and speed that she was startled when Sam suddenly stiffened and shouted with alarm, "Dean!"

TJ glanced in the direction Sam was looking, and her heart caught in her throat.

Dean and Rocket were in an open space closer to the street. Just beyond them was a little towheaded boy who couldn't be more than two years old running as fast as his little legs would carry him, straight for the busy street.

"Shit." Sam's voice was filled with dread. "Dean!" he shouted again.

Dean heard him this time and gave him a questioning look, Frisbee in his hand cocked to throw, Rocket waiting at the ready.

At the same time, the boy's mother, who was standing in a group of other moms and toddlers, had apparently discovered that her son was about to run into the road and screamed, "Logan! Logan, stop!" She took off at a sprint, running as fast as she could, but there was no way she would get to her son before he reached the street.

The boy giggled and seemed to run faster the more his mother called to him to stop.

Dean registered what was going on and took off in a run, but it was too late. There was no way he would make it to the little boy in time.

TJ watched the scene unfold in horror, as if it were in slow motion. Sam sat beside her, jaw and fists clenched.

Suddenly, Rocket started running for the boy, easily passing by Dean and the boy's mother, who were both running as fast as they possibly could.

The little boy took a step off the curb into the street, and there was a large UPS truck barreling down on him. The driver of the truck reacted when he saw the kid, the tires of the truck screeching, but there was no way it would stop in time to miss the little boy.

TJ closed her eyes, unable to witness what was about to happen, but she opened them when she heard Sam whisper, "Rocket."

In the last second before disaster struck, Rocket grabbed the little boy's shirt in his mouth and pulled back, jerking the toddler out of the way of the truck just in time. His pull was so hard that the little boy was slung onto the sidewalk and fell down, promptly beginning to wail. Rocket seemed to lose his balance, inadvertently backing into the street.

The truck hit him. He flew through the air for a few feet, falling in a heap in front of it as it finally came to a stop.

There was instant chaos as the UPS driver jumped out of the truck, the mother reached the little boy, and Dean reached Rocket.

Sam had gone pale, and he was as still as a marble statue.

TJ felt at first numb, in shock, and then she was filled with sorrow, a sick feeling congealing in the pit of her stomach.

Sam slowly turned his head toward her, and the look of anguish in his eyes was heartbreaking. Without a word, he quickly maneuvered himself back up into his wheelchair, a grim look on his face, and started to wheel himself through the grass toward Rocket.

By the time TJ and Sam reached the accident scene, a crowd had gathered, and Sam politely and almost robotically squeezed his way through, TJ following solemnly behind him.

When they broke through the crowd, TJ could see Rocket lying on his side in the street, unmoving, eyes open halfway. Dean was bent over him, soothing him in a soft voice. "You did good, Rocket. Good boy."

Everyone was staring at Dean and Rocket, even the mother of the little runaway. She was holding the boy close to her in her arms, his little blond head on her shoulder. His eyes were red from crying, and he was still sniffling.

"How bad is it?" Sam asked. His voice was quiet, but it seemed to slice through the silence of the crowd gathered around them. He was calm, but his hands were gripping the wheels of his chair, his knuckles white.

Dean looked up from Rocket's side, his face carefully neutral, as if he were keeping his emotions in check. "He's breathing."

Sam wheeled to the edge of the curb. Balancing on his rear wheels, he carefully eased his wheels off of it and then transferred from his chair to the pavement near Rocket, scooting himself over to Rocket's side.

TJ was riveted to the sight of them and hardly noticed the police car that had pulled up. A policeman got out and put orange cones around the accident scene so cars would know to go around. He began asking questions of the bystanders, trying to figure out exactly what had happened, but TJ hardly registered anything that was said.

Sam looked Rocket over. He lifted his hand as if to touch him, but it hovered in the air, as if he were uncertain. His voice was gentle and soft. "Hey, buddy. You're gonna be okay."

Rocket at first had no reaction, but then, suddenly, there was a single wag of his tail and a high-pitched whine.

"Yeah," said Sam. "I know it hurts. It's gonna be okay."

There was another wag of the tail. Blood was in the beard around Rocket's mouth, and TJ prayed it wasn't because of internal injuries, although she knew that it was more likely than not.

Sam looked at Dean. "Did you..." He trailed off, swallowing convulsively.

Dean shook his head. "I didn't check for injuries. I was afraid to touch him."

Tentatively, Sam laid a hand on Rocket's rear haunch. "It's okay, boy. I'm just gonna check you out."

Rocket whined.

"Shh, boy. It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

Suddenly, a male voice next to TJ said, "Do you know these guys?"

TJ looked to see the policeman standing next to her, an inquisitive look on his face. He was young, probably in his mid to late twenties with brown hair cut military style, not much taller than she was.

"Yeah," she answered. "The darker-headed one is my boyfriend. Rocket is his dog."

The policeman nodded. "From what I hear, the dog's a hero."

A lump formed in TJ's throat. She couldn't get her voice to work, so she just nodded.

The policeman stepped off the curb and crouched down next to Sam. "I'm Officer Riddick. I'm going to call for an emergency animal technician to come check him out. We won't move him until we know how bad it is."

Sam nodded. His hand still rested on Rocket's haunch, as if he'd been waiting to see what effect his touch would have. Rocket hadn't made any noises indicating Sam's touch hurt him, so Sam lifted his hand to Rocket's shoulder and lightly ran it down the length of him.

Rocket let out a sigh, and then his breathing got a little faster.

Sam reached up and gently touched Rocket's head, rubbing his hand over Rocket's floppy ear and then very carefully lifting the skin of Rocket's lip.

Rocket whimpered again, but, otherwise, he didn't flinch or protest.

"Looks like he's got some broken teeth," said Sam. "Maybe that's where the blood around his mouth is coming from." He looked to Dean, as if seeking confirmation.

Dean gave a faint nod, as if he didn't really believe that but couldn't bring himself to contradict Sam.

Next, Sam felt of each of Rocket's legs and then his belly, pressing down on it slightly. Sam's brow was wrinkled in concentration, and, this time when he spoke, it was more to himself than to anyone around him. "His belly isn't swollen or anything, and it doesn't feel like any of his legs are broken. Maybe it's not as bad as we think."

Dean's brows arched into a worried vee. "Sam..." he began, but trailed off at the hopeful look on Sam's face.

A tear slid down TJ's cheek, and she wiped it away and looked up at the sky. _"Dear Lord_," she prayed silently, _"please, please, please, don't let Rocket die. Please. He's such a good dog, and Sam's such a good guy. Neither one of them deserves this. I don't mean to tell you what to do, but maybe you could just consider giving us a miracle here?" _

In the next instant, Rocket gingerly rolled over onto his belly. His eyes looked glassy, and he laid his head on his paws, as if the effort of the movement had overwhelmed him. Still, he had moved, and it looked a whole lot better than him lying on his side, taking what they'd all probably been thinking were his last breaths.

TJ looked heavenward, eyes wide open, hardly able to believe it. Was it just a coincidence, or had her prayer just been answered? Her pulse quickened, and the crowd around her started to murmur.

Sam sat frozen for a second, and then he looked up at TJ, brow wrinkled in his puppy-dog look, almost matching the expression on Rocket's face. It would have been funny in other circumstances, but TJ knew how worried he was, how much he wanted Rocket to be okay.

She stepped onto the street and crouched down on her hands and knees, looking Rocket in the eye. "Did you get your bell rung, Rocket?"

He looked at her, eyes unfocused.

She slowly and gently reached out and scratched and rubbed his ear just the way he liked, and he let out a contented sigh. "You're gonna be just fine, boy. You hear?" When she touched his other ear, however, he let out a high-pitched yelp and jerked his head away from her, turning it more toward Sam.

Again, the movement seemed to have been too taxing for him, and he laid his head on his paw, as far away from her as he could get. His eyes looked up at Sam.

Sam frowned and gently touched the area again. Rocket whined but didn't move away. "He's got a huge goose egg behind his ear."

"Maybe he just has a concussion," she said. "You think you can get him to stand up?"

Sam's eyes shifted to the dog. "Rocket, up," he commanded.

Rocket gave him a look with his eyes that seemed to say, _Are you crazy?_

Sam slid his hand up under Rocket's belly and pushed up a little to encourage him. "Come on, boy. Rocket, up!"

Again, Rocket's movements were slow and cautious, but eventually he got his feet under him and stood on shaky legs, like he was a little dizzy.

Sam's face broke into a dimpled smile, and TJ saw a look of relief on Dean's face that matched how she felt. She laughed with elation, and the crowd behind her started clapping and cheering. The policeman joined in, giving Sam a friendly clap on the shoulder to congratulate him.

The UPS driver, who was the unofficial bad guy even though none of it was really his fault, threw his hands in the air and let out a huge sigh. "Oh, thank God!"

TJ looked up to the sky again. "Yes. Thanks," she said softly.

It was then that someone in the crowd said, "He's the dog's owner, that guy with the longish hair."

An attractive, African American woman had broken through the crowd. She was wearing a dove-gray business suit and had a short haircut that gave her an air of professionalism and confidence. She was carrying a wireless microphone, and a news cameraman was following close behind her.

The smiles on the faces of Sam and Dean fell away, and they shared a wary look with each other.

Rocket sat down, and if it were possible for a dog to look green around the gills, then he definitely did. They needed to get him to a vet as soon as possible.

The news reporter bent over and offered her hand to Sam. "Hi, I'm Julissa Smith, a reporter with Channel 10 news, KGTV. My cameraman Don and I were on our way back to the station when we saw the commotion. I was wondering if you'd like to be interviewed for the seven o'clock news broadcast?" She smiled confidently, as if there were no doubt Sam would be thrilled at the prospect.

Sam's face was unreadable. "No thanks," he said, polite yet firm. "I need to get my dog to a vet." He looked at the policeman. "I think it'll be faster if we take him ourselves."

The cop nodded. "I'll cancel the call for the animal tech."

The smile on Julissa's face turned saccharine. "It won't take but a second, sir," she said to Sam, pressing the issue. "I just need a sound bite for my report."

"Like I said, not interested." Sam's tone was more clipped this time. He looked at TJ. "Will you move my chair closer?"

TJ unlocked the brakes of his chair and pulled it over to him.

"Thanks," he said. He locked the brakes again and pulled his legs up to where his knees were tucked close to his chin. Then, with moves that underlined his strength and expertise, he grabbed the frame of his chair with one hand, stiffened his other elbow and put his fist to the ground, dipping his head and lifting his buttocks high enough in the air to maneuver himself onto the seat cushion of his chair. Once seated, he adjusted and lifted his legs with his hands, putting his tennis shoes on the footplate. He was quick and sure, and the whole process hadn't taken more than a second.

A girl in the crowd said, "Whoa. That was cool."

He rubbed the knuckles of the hand that had been fisted on the pavement, wincing a little.

There was a calculating look in the reporter's eyes as she looked down at Sam. "You're a wheelchair user."

Dean rolled his eyes. "There's a newsflash for you. Holy crap, Sam. Did you know you're a gimp?"

Sam looked down at himself, brow wrinkled in mock consternation. "Huh."

TJ gave a small laugh, both at Sam and Dean and at the uneasy look on most of the faces in the crowd. They obviously weren't sure what to think, like they didn't know if it was okay to joke about having a disability.

The reporter looked slightly embarrassed but quickly recovered, appearing professionally concerned.

Sam's expression morphed into the politely bland mask that TJ always thought of as his _ambassador-for-people-with-disabilities_ face. It was the face that meant he had other important things he needed to be doing, but he would be patient and not be an asshole to the clueless able-bodied person who, in this case, had just stated the obvious.

TJ spoke up. "I'm sorry. We really need to get Rocket to the vet. We need to make sure he doesn't have any internal injuries."

"'Rocket'?" repeated the reporter with a smile. "What a great name. You know, this would make a wonderful human interest story. I really think you should reconsider appearing on camera."

Sam looked up at her, his jaw clenching and his patience clearly fading fast. "Look, I'm sorry. I can't help you." He leaned over and patted Rocket gently on the head—the part without the large bump. "You want a ride, boy?"

Rocket looked at him, sort of cross-eyed and dubious at the same time.

Still leaning over, Sam looked up at Dean. "Help me pick him up."

Dean obliged, and together they very carefully got Rocket up into Sam's lap.

Rocket didn't make a sound, but the pitiful look in his eyes said he wasn't feeling so hot at the moment. He was lying down in Sam's lap, breathing rapidly, his head lying on his paws over Sam's knees.

Sam swiveled and faced the curb. It was at least seven or eight inches high, which was difficult, but he could usually manage it on his own. However, with Rocket in his lap, he gave Dean a look, tilting his chair in a wheelie so his casters would clear, and Dean quickly helped push him up onto the sidewalk.

The crowd parted so Sam could get through, and he started heading in the direction of the parking lot.

TJ heard the policeman say, "Okay, folks. Show's over."

She looked back over her shoulder. The crowd was dispersing, but the news cameraman was filming Sam and Rocket as they rolled away, and there was a smug, defiant expression on the reporter's face.

TJ was instantly angry. "Dean," she said, jerking her head in the reporter's direction.

Dean's mouth tightened.

"What?" asked Sam.

"They're filming us. Those news people are filming us," answered TJ.

Sam's expression grew grim, but he didn't seem surprised. "Just leave it. We need to get Rocket to a vet. He comes first."

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean had the feeling he was being watched. He had made a sandwich in the kitchen and brought it into the living room, where he'd just sat down on the sofa to watch some TV. Actually, he was watching the seven o'clock news on Channel 10 to see if Rocket and Sam were famous. The thought made him uneasy.

He glanced over at Rocket, who was lying on his "good" side on the soft, faux-fur doggy bed next to the sofa. Rocket's light-colored eyes were following Dean's every movement—or, more specifically, his sandwich's movement.

Dean was glad to see that the mutt was finally awake and looked a little less cross-eyed. Rocket had slept most of the day after the events of that morning when he'd taken on a UPS truck and lost.

They had, of course, taken him straight to the emergency animal hospital from the scene of the accident, since his regular vet was off that day. He had sustained a concussion, loose and broken teeth (a few of which had to be pulled), abrasions on his paws, some cracked and bruised ribs, and a bruised hip. None of it, however, was life-threatening. For Sam's sake, Dean was glad of that. Okay. Maybe he was just glad, period, that the little ghoul had survived.

While it was great news that Rocket would eventually be okay, right now, the dog could hardly move. The vet had prescribed doggy pain pills and said that it would be normal for Rocket to sleep a lot. The combination of the pain pills and his concussion would almost guarantee it. According to the vet, it would probably take Rocket at least a couple of weeks before he felt more like himself.

Rocket hadn't eaten anything since his breakfast early that morning, but judging by the wistful way he was eyeing Dean's sandwich, it was easy to deduce that he was hungry. The little mongrel was always hungry, even when he was at death's door, apparently, and he had a particular liking for any food that was Dean's. It was no wonder. Dean's food tasted a lot better than the healthy shit Sam and TJ always ate.

Dean took a bite of his sandwich, trying to ignore Rocket, but the damn dog was staring a hole through him. Rocket could probably smell that it was bologna and cheese, which was his favorite, judging by the fact that it was that kind of sandwich that got stolen off the counter more than any other.

Dean snuck a look at TJ and Sam, who were both studying or writing papers or doing other collegy stuff at the dinette table, both their ears plugged with earbuds. It was the way they protected themselves from distractions, drowning out noise around them with music from their iPods, noise like Dean watching the TV.

TJ pretty much lived with them. She stayed at her own apartment one or two nights a week just to keep up appearances, but she spent most of her free time here with Sam. Dean didn't mind. TJ and Sam both kept up exhausting schedules with work and class and studying, and they deserved whatever time they could carve out of their week to be together—usually nights and weekends.

She was a pretty easygoing roommate and fun to have around, and he didn't feel like he constantly had to watch what he said around her about the hunting, since she already knew all there was to know. He envied Sam for that—the freedom of not having anything to hide—and felt a stab of regret that he was too much of a chicken shit to tell Heather; but just the thought of telling her filled him with dread.

He focused his attention back on Rocket, who was still eyeing the sandwich. If Rocket had felt better, Dean had no doubt he would have leaped up from the doggy bed in a single bound and snaked the sandwich from Dean's hand. Normally, there was no way in hell Dean would have considered sharing with Rocket, but the image of that kid running toward the street and the helpless, sick feeling Dean had felt, knowing there was no way he would get there in time, kept replaying in his head.

He didn't know how Rocket had understood what was happening, but the fact that Rocket had saved that kid's life was nothing short of a miracle. The crazy dog had risked his life and had almost gotten killed, and that was something Dean could identify with.

He shifted his eyes to TJ and Sam just to make sure they weren't paying attention and then tore off a bite of his sandwich. Slowly, stealthily, he reached over and put the food near Rocket's mouth.

Rocket looked at him warily, as if it was some kind of trap.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Just take it," he hissed through his teeth.

Rocket lifted his head enough so that he could take the bite from Dean. He chewed gingerly, and Dean winced for him, knowing that, even though the food was soft, chewing still had to be painful. When Rocket was done, he let out a sound that was half sigh, half snort of contentment and laid his head back down.

Dean took another bite of his sandwich and glanced at Rocket again, arching a brow. The dog was now staring at him with soulful "Sam" eyes, brow wrinkled. "I don't believe it," Dean muttered to himself. "Next you'll be doing yoga and going to law school."

Sam frowned at him from the table. "Did you say something, Dean?"

Dean lifted his chin and gave a quick, falsely-innocent smile, not showing any teeth. "No, no. I didn't say anything."

Sam's frown deepened. He studied Dean for a moment before cutting his eyes to Rocket. Apparently seeing that Rocket was okay, he went back to his studying.

Dean exhaled an annoyed breath and looked at Rocket. "All right," he said, keeping his tone so low it was almost a whisper, "you can have some more, but don't think this is gonna be a regular thing. Once you're back on your feet, it's war."

He'd fed Rocket nearly his whole sandwich when he saw it, the news story featuring Sam and Rocket. "Son of a bitch."

Sam and TJ both looked up from the table, pulling their earbuds from their ears.

Dean grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the TV. The reporter had been thorough. There were several sound bites from onlookers who pieced together the story, and, in the end, there was a shot of Sam and Rocket rolling down the sidewalk, followed by Dean and TJ.

TJ narrowed her eyes. "That bitch. You should sue her ass. Isn't it illegal to use someone's image without their permission?"

Sam's mouth was in a tight line. "Yeah. It is."

"At least she didn't know your name."

Dean caught Sam's eye and saw that Sam was thinking the same thing he was. They were hunters, no matter that they were mostly retired, and it had been ingrained in them from childhood that hunters were supposed to blend into the woodwork and not call attention to themselves.

Maybe Dean was just being paranoid, but he had a bad feeling about this. A wheeler and his heroic dog weren't exactly inconspicuous, especially not a wheeler who was a former hunter. If someone wanted to find them, there were ways, and it didn't matter that Sam's name wasn't mentioned.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping up fresh strawberries and pineapple to go into the banana split smoothies TJ was helping him make. It was eleven in the evening on a Friday, and he'd gotten home from his bookkeeping job at Shorty's a little earlier than usual. It wasn't often that it happened, but sometimes he was able to get his work done sooner than he normally would and head home.

TJ had been waiting for him at the apartment, and she'd been in the rare mood for something sweet when he'd gotten there. They usually didn't stay up too long after he got home from work, but tomorrow was Saturday, and he was wired. Dean was on a hunt for a vampire, and there was no way Sam would be able to sleep until he knew his brother was at home and safe.

So, Sam had found a smoothie recipe online that matched the ingredients they already had in the fridge. It wasn't the way he would have gotten his mind off things two years ago before his SCI, but things change. Besides, it was really TJ that got his mind off worrying about Dean, just being with her, doing normal things like this.

A smoothie this late at night would take him off his eating and drinking schedule, which, in turn, would affect his bathroom schedule, but he wasn't as strict about it as he used to be. He'd learned more about his paralyzed body in the past several months, how it worked and the subtle hints it gave him, and he could better predict when he needed to use the bathroom. It didn't always work, and he still occasionally had an accident, but he was learning to not be so mortified by it.

The few times it had happened, he'd noticed it before anyone else and had been able to change his jeans before it was too embarrassing. He always kept an extra set of clothing in his backpack just in case. It sucked sometimes, but his choice was to either be held prisoner by his bowel and bladder management programs, or have a life. He chose life.

He'd been in his chair all day, either in class or at work, so he'd put on his leg braces when he'd gotten home to stretch out a bit and feel tall. He was leaning against the counter to help him balance so he'd have both hands to work. He could move around pretty well, actually, by pushing his palms down on the counter to lift himself enough to sort of swing his legs in whatever direction he needed to go. His forearm crutches were propped against the wall at the end of the counter.

TJ was by his side, slicing a banana. "You think Rocket might like some?"

Sam eyed Rocket out of the corner of his eye. He was lying on his doggy bed, watching them with woeful blue eyes. "You can try," said Sam. "His mouth is still pretty sore, but I'm sure he can handle a banana if he wants it."

TJ went over to Rocket and sat down next to him, cross-legged. "Want some banana?"

Rocket gave the piece of fruit a sniff and then snaked it out of TJ's fingers with his tongue.

She petted him on the head, careful of the tender spot behind his ear. "Poor baby." She scratched his good ear. "Our little hero." She was talking to him in a silly voice like she would an infant. "Such a good boy. Such a good boy."

Rocket sighed and wrinkled his chocolate-colored brow, imploring eyes trained on her.

She got down in his face and kissed him lightly on the top of his head between his floppy ears. "You want some more banana, don't you, boy?"

Rocket didn't deny it, just gave her more wrinkled brow.

"You're just like your master. You know if you give me those puppy-dog eyes, I'll do whatever you want."

Sam smiled to himself.

She got up off the floor and walked back to her cutting board, her mouth curved in amusement.

He leaned down toward her, holding onto the counter for balance, and kissed the smattering of freckles on her nose. "You'll do whatever I want, huh?"

She turned her face up to him and brushed her lips against his. "Mm-hm."

She smelled so good, like banana and flowers and mint and everything TJ. His body reacted to her, his blood beginning to heat. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

Rocket let out another sigh, this one less pitiful and much louder, more impatient.

TJ giggled and gently broke the kiss. "I think I'm gonna be in trouble if I don't get that dog some more banana." There was a smile in her voice, and she talked slow and easy, her accent coming through.

He loved her Kentucky accent (not to be confused with Southern, as she had corrected him once). It always came out when she was emotional or, as in this case, had just been kissed by him. He smiled and brushed the corner of her mouth with his lips. "What about me?"

"You're my hero, too, but you didn't get creamed by a UPS truck six days ago savin' a toddler's life."

"Hmm. Good point." He straightened and looked at Rocket. "The sacrifices I make for you. You owe me, buddy."

Rocket gave the puppy-dog look to Sam, and Sam rolled his eyes and grinned. "You can't con a con, dude. Those won't work on me."

"Oh, please," said TJ dryly. "He's got you _and_ Dean wrapped around his paw."

Sam gave a short laugh, knowing she was right.

She cut up half of a banana and sat down next to Rocket again, carefully feeding him one slice at a time.

Sam was glad Rocket was eating. He hadn't been eating very well because of his sore teeth, and Sam had relented and let him eat whatever soft food would entice him. He ate things like wieners (of course), sliced cheese rolled into a ball, bologna and cheese sandwiches, and, now, bananas.

People food wasn't very good for him, but there was no point in trying to keep him from it, especially since Dean had been feeding him stuff like that when he thought Sam wouldn't notice. They'd probably never get Rocket to go back to eating dog food again when he was recovered.

When Rocket was done, TJ gave him another peck on his head and made her way back to Sam. Sam had finished chopping the strawberries and pineapple, and they were ready to make the first smoothie. They put the rest of the ingredients—yogurt, almond milk, honey, and ice—into the blender with the cut-up fruit and started it, pulsing it and then letting it run until everything was smooth.

The blender was so loud that both Sam and TJ were startled when she cut off the blender and a voice behind them said, "Hey, guys."

Sam's heart pounded for a split second, until he realized that the voice belonged to Heather. At first he was relieved that it wasn't some crazy demon or other hellspawn, but then he remembered that Dean wasn't there, that he was on a hunt his girlfriend knew nothing about. And Heather was supposed to be working one of her twenty-four-hour shifts, not standing in their kitchen.

"I didn't mean to scare you," she said. "The door was unlocked, so I came in. I hope that was okay."

Sam glanced briefly at TJ, and she arched her brows almost imperceptibly, an _oh-shit_ expression on her face.

Sam looked over his shoulder as far as he could without losing his balance. "Hey, Heather. Of course it's okay."

"Hey, Heather," echoed TJ, turning around to face her. "What—um, I thought you were workin' tonight."

Heather was smiling. "The schedule got all screwed up. I was supposed to fill in for this guy Mike, but then the family thing he had for tonight got canceled, so I told him he could have his shift back because he needed the money. I've been trying to call Dean, but he's not answering for some reason. I think he might have forgotten to turn his phone on again. Anyway, I thought I'd come over here and surprise him. Is he here?"

Sam hated this. He really, really, _really_ didn't want to lie to this nice girl who deserved better. He'd been tempted to tell her himself about the hunting, but he knew Dean would kill him if he did. Dean should be the one to tell her, but they might all be in the grave before Dean ever grew the stones to do it.

Sam and TJ had had many discussions about how Dean should tell Heather everything, but they could talk about it until they were blue in the face. No matter how much they bitched about it, Dean wouldn't tell Heather until he was ready.

Dean had told a girl once before about the hunting, and it had ended in disaster. Sam understood why Dean was reluctant to tell Heather, but that didn't make lying to her the right thing to do, either.

Sam was irritated that now he and TJ would be forced to come up with an excuse for where Dean was. The worst of it was that Sam was caught completely off guard and had no idea what to say. TJ wouldn't be much help, either. She was radiating guilt.

The smile on Heather's face faded, and she turned her head slightly, eyeing them like she was suddenly suspicious. "Are you guys okay?"

"Oh, yeah," said TJ, wiping her hands on her jeans. "We're just fine."

Her drawl was more pronounced, and when she said "fine," it sounded like _"fahn_." She'd make a horrible poker player because her accent was a tell so glaringly obvious it was easy to figure out when something had her ticked off or rattled. It was one of the things Sam loved about her, but it wasn't doing them much good at the moment.

"We're makin' smoothies," she said a little too brightly. "You want one? It's a banana split recipe that Sam found on the Internet."

Heather folded her arms. "No thanks." Her tone was stern. "Where's Dean, you guys?"

Sam grabbed the counter with both hands on one side and pulled so he could pivot his body around to where he could face Heather. When he was twisted about half way, he braced his palms behind him on the counter and turned the rest of the way around, arching back and pushing down on the counter a bit so his body would lift and he could swing his legs into the right place.

He felt disoriented for a second now that the counter was behind him instead of in front of him. He couldn't feel anything below his waist, and it was like his upper torso was floating. Things like that still occasionally threw him for a loop, and he looked down at his feet to ground himself and gripped the counter behind him a little tighter with his hands. "Dean's working late," he finally answered.

Heather's demeanor was a little guarded, a little challenging. "It's almost eleven-thirty at night. Hasn't he been there since seven this morning?"

TJ turned her back to Heather, facing the counter again. Her dark, auburn-chestnut hair was in a ponytail, and her ears were turning pink. She removed the glass pitcher from the base of the blender and poured the smoothie into one of the tall glasses they'd already gotten out. "I better get this other smoothie goin'. Our ice is melting," she said, referring to the three ice cube trays sitting on the counter that hadn't been emptied yet.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah," he said, answering Heather's question, "it's been a long day for him, but you know Dean. They were swamped today. I'm sure he's just trying to get caught up before Monday so he won't have to start the week behind."

"Okay," said Heather. "I'll just call the Firestone store, then, and see if I can reach him that way." She reached into her purse that was hanging on her shoulder and pulled out her cell phone.

"Are you sure you don't want a smoothie?" asked TJ, looking at Heather over her shoulder.

Heather inhaled and exhaled, pasting a polite yet slightly annoyed expression on her face. "Yes, TJ. I'm sure." She pressed a button on her phone and held it up to her ear.

"All right," said TJ, "but you're missin' out." She rudely started the blender, making it impossible for Heather to hear.

Heather pulled the phone away from her ear, ended the call with an exaggerated push of a button, and stared in disbelief.

TJ blended the smoothie for an extra-long time, the grinding noise of it starting to grate even on Sam's nerves. When she finally cut it off, it was a relief.

"Why are you acting so weird, TJ?" said Heather.

TJ froze for a second.

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. He might have pulled this off if it weren't for TJ's horrible attempt at subterfuge.

She unfroze herself and poured the smoothie into the other glass. "I'm actin' weird?"

"Yeah," replied Heather. "I might have believed Sam, but you're about the worst liar I've ever seen. What's going on?" She hesitated for a second, her expression turning wary and hurt. "Is he—is Dean out with someone else?"

TJ turned around to face Heather and said emphatically, "Lord, no. He would _never_ do something like that."

Sam was a little surprised by TJ's fervent denial on Dean's behalf. Sam himself wasn't even that sure of Dean's faithfulness. He knew Dean cared about Heather, but Dean being monogamous to one person was a new thing.

Heather gave a relieved smile and then laughed a little. "I believe you, TJ. It's easy to figure out when you're lying, but it's easy to figure out when you're telling the truth, too."

TJ gazed down at her bare feet for a second, her ears turning pink again.

"So why are you two covering for him, Sam? If he's not at work, and he's not out with some other girl, what's he doing?"

Sam cleared his throat. "He's, uh—"

Suddenly, the front door slammed. "Sam, I'm back!" yelled Dean from the living room.

Sam could hear the thud of a duffel bag hitting the floor. The first thought that went through his head was, _Dean is fucked._ The second thought that went through his head was, _Serves him right. He should've had a talk with Heather long ago. _But when his brother walked into the kitchen, shirt spattered and soaked all over with blood, Sam felt a spike of fear, afraid Dean had been injured.

However, the stoked look on Dean's face quickly allayed Sam's concern. Dean was moving freely and wasn't acting like he was hurt, so Sam deduced the blood—or at least most of it—was probably from the vampire Dean had been hunting. The tension in Sam's shoulders eased for the first time since Heather had gotten there. She was Dean's problem now.

Sam put his arm around TJ. She was stiff, and it was easy to see that she was worried about what was going to happen.

The moment Dean saw his girlfriend, he stopped in his tracks, the smile dying on his lips and all the color draining from his face. "Heather?"

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Thanks to my wonderful betas sallyloveslinus and skzb for all their hard work and insights!_**

**Chapter 4**

Heather was horrified to see Dean covered in blood, and, for a moment, she felt weak in the knees, her heart starting to hammer with fear. Then her paramedic training kicked in, and she ruthlessly staved off the panic and immediately began to assess him.

He had suddenly gone a little pale, and he seemed to be holding his breath. She walked over and put her hands on his upper arms. "Dean, sit down at the dinette table and let me check you out."

Of course, she wanted to know where he'd been and what had happened to him, but first things first. She needed to make sure he wasn't seriously injured.

He seemed to come to his senses and gently put his hands on her elbows, looking her in the eye. "I'm okay, Heather. I'm okay."

"Dean," she said with unerring calm, "you're covered in blood. Have you been cut somewhere? Go sit down and take your shirt off so I can see." She had pulled away from him and was already looking over his arms and hands, checking the pulse in his wrist.

He crouched down a little and looked into her face, getting her attention. "Heather, I'm okay. I swear. This blood isn't mine."

She frowned. "Then whose is it?"

Dean's eyes shifted to Sam, who was behind her. She turned to see Sam's brows raised in interest and an apologetic, worried look on TJ's face.

Dean sighed. "Heather, there's something we need to talk about." He looked over her shoulder again at Sam. "Table. Now."

"_All_ of us?" asked Sam, suddenly sounding wary.

Dean looked as if he were about to face a firing squad. "I think I'm gonna need backup on this, Sammy."

_Okay. This is getting weird, _thought Heather. She turned in time to see Sam nod, looking more serious.

TJ cleared her throat. "I'll put the smoothies in the fridge."

After they were all seated around the table, Dean looked at Heather with a solemn expression that was echoed by Sam and TJ.

Heather began to feel really uneasy. "What's going on, guys? You're starting to freak me out."

"Heather," said Dean, his voice sounding gruff, "there's something I should have told you about me a long time ago." He inhaled a deep breath, as if fortifying himself. "I know you don't believe in ghosts and stuff, but it's..." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's all real. There's things out there that are evil, that aren't human."

_What? _She must have heard him wrong. She stared at him, her hands neatly folded and resting on the table in front of her. He was going to somehow make that statement seem rational, right? She waited for him to go on.

"Sam and I grew up as hunters, people who fight supernatural creatures—evil creatures. Our dad got into it after our mom was killed by a demon, and we grew up in the life. We've been hunting since we were kids, but we quit after Sam got hurt. I still take an occasional hunt if I'm needed, and Sam sometimes helps Bobby out with research, but that's rare." He paused, as if waiting for some kind of reaction from her.

She showed no emotion. How was she supposed to react to that? This had to be some kind of joke they were playing on her. She looked at TJ and Sam and was disconcerted to see that their expressions hadn't changed. It didn't look like they were trying to hide smiles or might burst out laughing at any second at the absurdity of what Dean was saying. And how could he make up such a bizarre way for his mother to die, being killed by a _demon_? How could he joke about something like that?

The silence in the room grew, and Dean finally went on when it was clear Heather didn't have anything to say. "We've hunted ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and lots of other things that most people think only exist in horror movies. I was hunting a vampire tonight, and that's where the blood on my shirt is from. I killed it."

She sat there, numb, like this whole conversation was a figment of her imagination.

There was another awkward silence. Finally, Dean cleared his throat and said, "I know it sounds crazy."

Heather bit her bottom lip, still trying to comprehend what he had just told her.

He sighed. "Do you think you could say something, Heather? I'm kind of hangin' by a thread here, wondering what you're thinking."

She was thinking he was stark-raving mad, and the thought sickened her. She couldn't reconcile the words coming out of his mouth with the Dean she knew—with the Dean she was in love with.

Sam cleared his throat, and his brows were drawn together in an earnest expression. "He's telling the truth, Heather. It's how I got hurt. We were on a hunt, trying to take out a poltergeist, and it threw a knife directly into my spine."

She gawked at him, unable to move a single muscle, horrified by what Sam had just told her and knowing there was no way it could be true. A _poltergeist_ threw a _knife_ at him?

TJ reached over and put a gentle hand over Heather's, which were still folded on the table. "I know it's a lot to take in, but Dean and Sam aren't bonkers. I've seen some of it with my own two eyes."

Oh, God. Even TJ was in on this and believed them?

"I'm sorry, Heather," said Dean, his features rigid, as if he were holding in his emotions. "I should have told you a long time ago."

She suddenly felt like all the blood was draining from her body, leaving her shaky and cold. She didn't know what to think, didn't _want_ to think, afraid that she might come to the conclusion that her boyfriend and her two closest friends needed to be committed. Suddenly, she just wanted to get away, wanted to run.

She scooted her chair back and stood, slinging her purse that had been hanging on the back of the chair over her shoulder.

Dean, Sam, and TJ all looked up at her.

She didn't know what to say to them, and she felt a little lightheaded. She couldn't make eye contact with any of them, especially not Dean. She stared at a nick in the glass of the table instead. "I..." She what? Needed time to think? Thought they were all lunatics? Never wanted to see them again? "I need to go."

She heard Dean say "Heather," but she couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to meet his eyes, afraid she might see madness there where she'd never seen it before. "I need to go," she repeated again and bolted for the front door, feeling their gazes boring into her back.

**XXXXXXXX**

Gordon Walker sat in his car and watched the parking lot of the San Diego County Animal Shelter, waiting for Ronnie Barnes to either drive up in one of the county vehicles or come from inside the shelter and get into one of the trucks that was already parked. Gordon had a picture of Ronnie, and he had scrutinized the driver of every truck he'd seen so far, but none of them had been his prey.

Gordon was a good hunter, but his skills as a computer hacker were almost nonexistent. He really needed to find a hacker that would do some less-than-legal work for him, but they were an elusive bunch, even more elusive than hunters, and quite skittish when it came to dealing with outsiders. Until he could find a hacker looking for regular work, Ronnie Barnes would have to be Plan B.

Gordon needed access to San Diego County's dog licensing records. The newscast showing the guy in the wheelchair and Marcus's dog, who had saved some toddler's life, had been a stroke of incredible luck, almost like divine intervention. Maybe it had been. After all, Gordon's intentions were pure. He was driven—some might even say obsessed—with ridding the world of evil, especially vampires, although he'd kill anything else that needed killing along the way.

Vampires aside, his latest cause was his best friend Marcus and Marcus's wife Felicia. Marcus was on the brink of finding a cure for her, and the dog was the key. Gordon would do whatever it took to help Marcus, who was like a brother to him, including bringing him specimens of whatever creatures he could find; but right now, Marcus needed the dog, and the dogcatcher was going to help Gordon find it.

Word on the streets was that Ronnie moonlighted as a buncher, collecting strays and selling them to Class B dealers to be test subjects in labs or as bait animals to train fighting dogs. Gordon figured if the man had no qualms about doing that, he wouldn't have any qualms about helping Gordon find the name and address of the disabled guy and the dog, especially since Gordon had dirt on Ronnie. It was illegal for Ronnie to use his job for personal gain in the nefarious way that he was, and Gordon was going to make sure Ronnie knew that. Gordon didn't feel guilty at all for blackmailing the scumbag.

The dog had only been missing for a couple of months, so hopefully by narrowing the search to new dog license applications during that time period, they'd be able to figure out the disabled man's name and address, although it probably wouldn't say on the license info that the man was disabled. Still, with a little bit of diligent searching, they should eventually be able to find out who had Marcus's dog.

Finally, after an hour and a half of waiting, Gordon saw Ronnie walk out of the building, his black hair and beady eyes unmistakable, matching perfectly the picture Gordon had of him. A slow smile spread across Gordon's face. "Hello, my friend," said Gordon to himself. "Gotcha."

He opened the door of his red El Camino and approached the dogcatcher. "Excuse me, sir. You're Ronnie Barnes; am I right?"

Ronnie looked at him suspiciously and then scanned the parking lot, as if trying to locate the nearest source of help should he need it. "Who wants to know?"

Gordon held out his hand. "I'm Wayne Tilden. I need your help finding a dog."

Ronnie's mouth twisted sarcastically, and he ignored Gordon's outstretched hand. "That ain't my area, mister. There's plenty of ladies in there that can help you adopt a dog."

Gordon pasted a polite smile on his face. "Oh, you misunderstand me, Ronnie. I'm looking for a particular dog, one that belongs to a good friend of mine, and he wants it back. Trouble is, we think someone might have adopted the dog not knowing that it already had a home."

"Well, if he was registered with the county—"

"Well, you see, my friend has had it since it was a very young puppy, and he just never got around to getting a license for the dog."

"Did he take it to a vet? Any vet in the county knows that dogs have to be licensed. Some even provide the service at their offices."

Gordon shook his head. "No. You don't understand. The dog is special, and my friend never took it to a normal vet. My friend is a doctor, so he just vaccinated the dog himself."

Ronnie's eyes grew large. "A people doctor? Don't you think that's a little weird that he didn't take the dog to a vet?"

Gordon gave a fake laugh. "You don't need to worry about that. All you need to know is that I know all about you, Ronnie. I know that you're a buncher, and I can prove it."

Ronnie narrowed his beady eyes. "How?"

"Do you really want to take that chance?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Like I said, I just need your help finding the dog. I know you have access to the county dog licensing records on the computer, and I need to search them for the last two months. You see, my friend and I just happened to notice the dog on a TV newscast about a week ago, purely by coincidence. Apparently, the owner is a disabled man—"

"Hold it right there," interrupted Ronnie. "You say the man was a cripple?"

Gordon disliked the term. "I said he was disabled, yes. A wheelchair user."

There was a calculating gleam in Ronnie's eye, and he rubbed his chin. "Is the dog a mutt, medium size, got some terrier and Lab and who knows what else in him?"

Gordon was suddenly on alert, his pulse picking up a bit. "How did you know?"

Ronnie leered. "Mister, we don't need to search those computer records. I think I got the man's name and address right here in my cell phone."

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean took a deep breath and knocked again firmly on Heather's apartment door. She wasn't answering, but he knew she was there. Her white Prius—a gift from her parents in better days—was in the parking lot.

It was Sunday, a little over a week since he'd told her the truth and she'd walked out of the apartment. He'd tried calling her several times and texting, but she wouldn't answer him, so he'd decided to go to her. He'd been to her apartment several times, too, but this was the first time he'd been sure she was at home.

He knocked again. "Come on, Heather. Please? We need to talk."

Finally, he heard the two deadbolts clicking on the other side before she opened the door a bit. Her mouth was in a grim line, and she looked a little pale. Her coppery hair was piled high on her head in a messy updo, and her light-blue eyes appeared hollow and somehow darker.

He felt an ache deep and tight in his chest. He'd missed her way more than he'd ever admit. It was the longest they'd gone without talking to each other since they'd met—for sure since they'd been dating—and the wondering had been hell. He'd had enough of the uncertainty and dread. He needed to know where he stood, needed to know if it was over. "Can I come in?"

She just stared at him like he had ten heads.

"Are you..." He trailed off, fighting a sick feeling in his stomach. He swallowed hard and tried again. "Are you afraid to let me in?"

She looked down for a second and then met his eyes squarely. "Yes."

"You think I'm crazy."

"I—I don't know." The deadness in her eyes was suddenly replaced with anguish, and she looked away.

"And Sam and TJ? You think they're crazy, too?"

She exhaled sharply and looked at him, her mouth in a tight line. "I don't know, Dean. I—I don't know what to think."

"Do you still love me?"

"You're not who I thought you were."

"I'll take that as a no."

Her eyes pierced him. "Are you playing some kind of sick joke on me?"

"You really think I'd do something like that?"

"I never thought you'd tell me you killed a vampire last Friday night," she countered.

He clenched his jaw. It was the whole Cassie thing all over again, and it hurt. "I'm not lying to you, Heather. I know it's hard to wrap your mind around, but what reason would I have to make it up?"

"I've asked myself the same question a hundred times, Dean, and the answer is always the same. Either you're lying to me for some reason, or..."

"Or what?"

"I think you need help, maybe Sam and TJ, too. I mean, are you—are you guys into some kind of role-playing game? Maybe you're taking it too seriously. Maybe the line between reality and fantasy has been blurred."

He could feel anger begin to spread through him, a slow heat that began in his stomach and spread outward. "I don't need to pretend I'm a fuckin' hobbit to get my rocks off, Heather. My real life is scary and weird enough."

"Well, excuse me for having a hard time believing all this, Dean. But you know what freaks me out even more?" She was usually soft-spoken, but her voice was getting louder. "What's even scarier, Dean, is if that blood didn't come from a vampire—which, let's be rational; it _didn't_—then where the hell did it come from? Maybe you're not just crazy. Maybe you're _psycho._ Maybe you, TJ, and Sam are devil worshipers and sacrifice virgins on full moons for all I know!"

He was barely holding in the rush of emotions threatening to overcome him, and his voice was intense. "How can you say that? You've known TJ and me for over a year, and you never thought we were crazy until now. You and me, we've been together for eight months. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't what we've shared mean anything to you?"

Her eyes blazed. "And just what have we shared, Dean? _I've _shared everything about myself with you, all my innermost thoughts and feelings. How many times have I told you that I love you? In return, you've shut me out, kept big chunks of your past and your life away from me. I thought you—I don't know. I thought you cared about me, you know? Maybe not loved me, but I thought there was a chance, that maybe in time..."

She looked up to the concrete ceiling of the apartment's breezeway and pressed her lips together, chin trembling. When she spoke again, she was back in control, but her voice sounded bitter. "You, Sam, and TJ, you're like The Three Musketeers, and I guess I've just been there to amuse you whenever you get an itch in your pants, right?"

He felt like she'd sucker-punched him, and he drew in a deep breath. "Heather, that's not true. I had no idea you felt that way." He reached out and lightly outlined her jaw with his fingers, almost wincing at the softness of her skin. "If that's how you think I feel, I'm sorry. You—" He had to stop, feeling his throat tighten and his eyes burn. When he spoke, his voice came out gruff. "You mean so much more to me than that."

She turned her face away from his touch and swallowed. "Right. That's why you've made up this weird story about vampires and ghosts instead of just telling me the fucking truth."

He'd never heard her curse before, and it was shocking coming from her, almost violent.

"Why can't you trust me?" she went on. "If your childhood or your past is so painful, share it with me, Dean. Let me help you deal with it. Don't make up some bizarre story about it."

He exhaled, trying to keep his breathing under control, trying to keep his temper in check. "Look at my face and tell me if I'm lying to you."

She searched his face, her eyes like walls of ice, not giving away what she was thinking.

He grabbed her upper arm, not hurting her but imploring, trying to will her to believe him. He wanted it so desperately. "If you really love me, then have faith in me. Stop being friggin' Joe Friday for once and take a leap of faith. Sometimes what the facts tell you is wrong. I could prove it to you, Heather. I could prove to you that I'm not crazy, and neither are Sam and TJ; but I'd have to take you on a hunt, and it's just too dangerous."

"Where did the blood come from, Dean? What were you really doing Friday evening?" She spoke deliberately, as if she hadn't heard anything he'd just said.

His heart sank. There was no way she was going to believe him. Keeping his voice hard and devoid of emotion, he said, "I was hunting a vampire. When I cut its head off with my machete, its blood splattered all over my shirt."

She let out a short, acerbic laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Do you hear yourself? Is this really how you want things between us to end?" Her eyes were suddenly pleading. "Just tell me the truth, Dean. That's all I want. I don't want you to be crazy. I don't want to lose TJ and Sam as my friends. I don't want to lose _you_. All you have to do is tell me the truth, and we can work through it."

His chest ached painfully. He knew the next words he said would damn their relationship, but he refused to lie anymore. "I am telling you the truth, Heather. All you have to do is believe me."

Her voice was quiet. "Tell me something I can believe, and I will."

He rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. "I guess there's nothing left to say."

She slowly closed her eyes.

He didn't stick around to see her open them again.

**XXXXXXXX**

Heather opened her eyes to see the back of Dean as he walked toward the Impala, his slightly bowlegged gait so familiar to her, so much a part of the guy she loved.

She retreated back into her apartment, shut the door with her back to it, and slid down it as her knees gave way. She felt drained, numb, shocked. It was over, and she still didn't really understand why. The last few days, she'd vacillated between denying that the whole vampire conversation had taken place and not knowing what to think because it _had _taken place.

That darkness she'd sensed in Dean, the air of mystery and danger she'd thought was exciting and attractive about him, made her feel ill now. She'd been so stupid, so naive. Maybe she should call the police. Maybe the darkness was deeper and more sordid than she'd ever dreamed. She couldn't get the sight of all that blood out of her head, the way his shirt had been saturated with it. If it wasn't his, whose was it?

It was like she'd been living in some Twilight Zone for the past year and the people she'd thought were her friends—her normal, funny, intelligent friends—were, in reality, a bunch of weirdos. It was just so contrary to what her eyes and ears were telling her, that they weren't certifiable, that they—and especially Dean—must have been telling her the truth.

But, for God's sake, they were asking her to believe in ghosts and vampires and demons and who knew what else. Her mind just couldn't fathom it, couldn't process it. Those things weren't real. They just weren't. It was a catch twenty-two, and there was no acceptable solution. She had to choose between believing that Dean and two of her closest friends were crazy or believing ghosts were real. So, instead, it was like her brain was refusing either one, and she had sort of shut down, kind of like she did on the job when she was faced with some shocking tragedy or witnessed someone in pain. Her emotions were locked away behind a wall inside her, and as long as they didn't break through, she felt nothing.

She could get through this. She was used to being alone. Losing Dean would hurt more than anyone she'd ever lost, more than any of her other ill-fated relationships, but she was numb right now. Maybe time would heal the pain before it got out of hand, before the wall inside her crumbled to dust and the reality that Dean had just walked out of her life tore her apart.

**XXXXXXXX**

Gordon straightened his collar as he and Ronnie walked up the steep sidewalk to the Winchesters' apartment. He couldn't believe how things were turning out. He'd heard of the Winchesters in hunting circles for years, but he'd never met them. He'd heard about what a badass their dad John was and how the boys were following in his footsteps after he'd been killed in a car accident.

Gordon also knew that he needed to tread carefully, that the Winchester brothers wouldn't be as easily duped as civilians, although, maybe "duped" wasn't the right word. After all, most of the story he was going to use was the truth. The closer to the truth he got, the better, because he knew the Winchesters would check up on his story. It was good that Marcus kept his research lab well hidden and that Felicia knew nothing about it. Even if the Winchesters decided to pay Felicia and Marcus a "visit" to check up on the dog, there shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary for them to see.

Gordon was a little worried about the identity he'd stolen, but it should hold up unless the Winchesters dug really deep. He was banking on the fact that they would be more interested in who Felicia and Marcus were, since they were the ones who would actually be giving the dog a home.

It was good that Marcus had introduced him as Wayne Tilden to Felicia when Gordon had first started gathering creatures for Marcus's research. She had no idea that "Wayne" was anything other than an old friend of Marcus's from high school that had just recently moved to the San Diego area.

Gordon had opted to bring Ronnie with him, against his better judgment, because he thought it would lend credence to his story if he brought an animal control officer with him. The more time he spent with Ronnie, though, the more he was having second thoughts. Ronnie was a jerk, pure and simple, and it seemed like he was getting some sort of pleasure out of the fact that Sam Winchester was about to lose his dog. Gordon, on the other hand, was feeling a twinge of guilt.

It was apparently the younger brother who was disabled, whose name was on the dog license information. Gordon was surprised word of Sam's injury hadn't spread throughout the hunting counterculture. He'd heard rumors that the Winchesters had gotten out of the life, but he hadn't given them any credit, and no one had said anything about the younger one being out of commission.

Gordon wondered what had happened to Sam, what the nature of his disability was. Was he paralyzed, or was it something else that had put him in a wheelchair? If it was an SCI, then maybe the fact that Gordon was about to take his dog away was a blessing in disguise. Sam might very well benefit from it in the long run, and the thought alleviated some of Gordon's guilt.

As they approached the door, Gordon checked that his khakis and button-down shirt weren't too wrinkled and tried to paste a sincere, sympathetic look on his face. He wanted to look as nonthreatening as possible—as little like a hunter as possible—and more like a normal guy who was relieved to have found his best friend's lost dog.

Ronnie hitched up his pants and spat on the sidewalk. "You better let me handle this."

Gordon felt disdain, but he knew Ronnie was right. It would make more sense for Ronnie to do the talking, since Gordon was supposed to be a humble, regular-Joe guy who didn't go around taking people's dogs from them every day. "Try not to act like a jackass," warned Gordon.

Ronnie bristled but said nothing. He'd been around Gordon long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

Gordon reached out and knocked on the door, willing himself to remain calm.

A minute passed, and then a man's voice behind the door said, "Who is it?"

"Open up," said Ronnie rudely. "It's Officer Ronnie Barnes with the San Diego County Department of Animal Services. We need to speak with Sam Winchester. I met him on Coronado Beach when he picked up a stray dog there."

There was a beat of silence and then the sound of locks being turned.

Gordon's heartbeat picked up when the door opened a little, and he looked down to see a man who had to be Sam Winchester looking up at him from his wheelchair.

Winchester's expression was guarded, eyes intelligent and alert—the eyes of a hunter.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam had a couple of hours to himself at the apartment between his last class and when he had to go to his bookkeeping job at Shorty's. Dean was at work, and TJ was in class, so Sam was at the dining table with his laptop working on a paper for his _Special Problems in Public Law _capstone course. It was a major paper, a culmination of all that he had learned, and he would have to present it to an academic panel at the end of the semester. It was a big deal.

He had loved being back in school. It was like riding a bike, even though it had been three years since he'd left Stanford. He was a political science major with a minor in English, and he'd easily picked up where he'd left off, since most of his credits had transferred.

His schedule was exhausting, especially when he added in the things he had to do every day to manage his health and deal with his disability. Then there was work and studying and trying to chisel out time for TJ, and it seemed like he had fifteen billion papers to write. He never got much sleep, but what else was new? He hadn't slept much when he'd been a hunter, either.

He was excited about the prospect of law school and realized he was becoming content with his life. Of course, given a choice, he'd rather not have to live it from a wheelchair; but, ironically, if he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd still be hunting, and if he were still hunting, there was no way he'd have a chance at a normal life like he did now. He was close to achieving what he'd always dreamed of, and if his disability was a part of that, then so be it. He could handle it.

He was about to take a break when there was a knock at the front door.

Rocket, whose bed was near the sofa, lifted his head and barked a low growl of warning and then laid his head back down on his paws. He wasn't the greatest watchdog in the world, but he did his best. Besides, Sam figured he should cut him some slack since it had only been two weeks since he'd been hit by the UPS truck. He was still pretty sore, although he was doing much better.

Sam pushed away from the table and wheeled over to where he was a few inches from the door. "Who is it?"

"Open up," said an abrupt voice. "It's Officer Ronnie Barnes with the San Diego County Department of Animal Services. We need to speak with Sam Winchester. I met him on Coronado Beach when he picked up a stray dog there."

Sam stiffened. As if he wouldn't remember the man and what an asshole he was. Sam was sure the reason the dogcatcher was there couldn't be for anything good.

He took a fortifying breath and then reached forward with his left hand, unlocking the locks and then opening the door. He used his right hand to grip his wheel and push back a bit so he was out of the way of the opening door. He found himself looking up into the faces of Ronnie the Douche Bag dogcatcher and a black guy dressed in business khakis and a blue button-down shirt. Sam's senses immediately went into hunter mode. "What can I do for you, Officer?"

The dogcatcher's features twisted into a version of the scornful expression he'd worn at the beach. "Well, Mr. Winchester, it turns out that mutt you thought you were rescuing on the beach didn't need rescuing."

"What?"

"There was already a legal owner of the dog before you applied for a license. Must have been a glitch in the system. It happens sometimes. You'll need to give the dog back to its rightful owner."

Sam's gut clenched at the thought of losing Rocket. "Do you have some kind of proof?"

Ronnie's face reddened. "Yeah, I got proof. Me," he said, pointing to his own chest with his thumb. "I'm an officer of San Diego County Animal Control. That's all the proof you need, mister."

This guy was such a dick, but Sam forced himself to remain calm. "Still, I'll need to see some paperwork."

"Is there something wrong with your ears, too?"

Sam gritted his teeth.

"I repeat," said Ronnie, leaning down close into Sam's face and speaking in a loud voice as if Sam were hard of hearing, "I'm an officer of the county. That's all you need to know. Hand over the dog."

With lightning-quick moves, Sam fisted the beige shirt of Ronnie's uniform in a vise-like grip and, at the same time, gripped his wheel with his other hand to maintain his balance.

Ronnie tried to pull back, but he was no match for Sam's immense arm strength.

Sam tightened his hold on the starched fabric of Ronnie's shirt and twisted, causing the collar of it to constrict around the man's neck. Sam looked him in the eye and growled in a low voice, "Stay out of my personal space."

Ronnie's lips were drawn back from his teeth in a grimace, and his pock-marked skin was turning purple, as if he were having trouble breathing. "You're...assaulting an officer of San Diego County," he rasped. "I'll throw...your ass in jail."

"Go head," said Sam, and he shoved Ronnie away from him, causing the man to stumble several feet backwards. Sam was actually a little surprised that the guy had stumbled so far; sometimes he didn't know his own strength. "You really want everyone to know that a cripple got the better of you?"

Ronnie was panting and rubbing his throat. "Where's the damn dog?" he choked out.

The black man who had been quietly observing the exchange stepped forward, a look of appreciation on his face, as if he didn't mind seeing Ronnie put in his place. "Mr. Winchester, maybe if I explain what happened—"

"And you are?" asked Sam, keeping his face neutral.

"I probably should have introduced myself in the first place," the man said in an apologetic tone, glancing toward Ronnie. The man sounded educated and had a precise way of speaking, pronouncing his words crisply and correctly. "My name is Wayne Tilden, and I'm very sorry, but we believe your dog rightfully belongs to my friend Marcus Ford and his wife Felicia."

"And why do you think that?"

"Well, you see, the dog has been missing for a couple of months, and my friends have been heartbroken that they lost it. By an incredible stroke of luck, they happened to be watching the newscast that featured you and the dog whenever it saved that child, and I've been doing the legwork for them, trying to find out who adopted the dog."

Sam inhaled a deep breath, fighting back a surge of anger at the reporter that had run the story without his permission. He'd known nothing good would come of it. "Why didn't your friend and his wife come for the dog if they're so attached?"

"Well, you see, Felicia has a spinal cord injury and has quadriplegia. She is dependent on a ventilator to help her breathe. Marcus doesn't like to leave her if he can help it, and it's hard for her to get out. The dog was going to be trained to be a service dog for her." He gave an indulgent chuckle. "It's a very spirited dog, though, as you've probably figured out, and not the best material for being in service. I don't even know if they still plan to have it trained." He chuckled. "It might just end up living the life of Riley, if you know what I mean."

Sam was suspicious. The man seemed harmless enough, but he was almost too polished, too congenial, and Sam wondered how true the whole story of the friend really was. The man had obviously known Sam used a wheelchair from seeing him on the newscast, so he could have made up the story to play on Sam's sympathies. And Sam didn't trust Officer Ronnie Barnes as far as he could throw him (which, apparently, was farther than he first would have guessed). He held back a smile of satisfaction.

There was something weird about how Tilden kept referring to Rocket as "it" instead of "he." It seemed to Sam that if the man had spent any time at all around Rocket visiting his friend and his wife, he would think of Rocket in a more personal way. Sam watched him closely, focusing on Tilden's dark eyes, looking for any tells. "So, what is the name of Marcus's dog?"

Tilden's eyes shifted ever so slightly to the left, and he hesitated just a beat too long before answering, "Uh...Van Gogh." He grew suddenly despairing, eyes full of pity. "Felicia named him. She was..." He trailed off, as if it were just too difficult to speak.

Sam frowned. It seemed a little contrived, but maybe he wasn't being fair. After all, he wanted there to be something fishy about this guy. He wanted to find a reason not to trust him because, quite simply, he didn't want this guy to take Rocket.

Tilden gave a small, sad smile. "Felicia was an art historian and a professor at UC San Diego until her car accident. The dog's muzzle reminded her of Van Gogh's red beard."

Sam inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying not to feel a twinge of sympathy for this woman Felicia that he'd never met. "Do you have any proof that your friend registered his dog?" He refused to acknowledge that Rocket and this other dog were one and the same.

"Yes. Of course." Tilden pulled a folded up piece of paper from the front pocket of his khakis and handed it to Sam.

Sam looked at the familiar form. It was identical to the one he had filled out when he'd registered Rocket. It was dated six months before Sam had gotten his license. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was starting to look really bad.

"That good enough for you?" asked Ronnie tersely.

Sam clenched his jaw.

"Oh," said Tilden, "I have a picture Marcus sent with me, also. I can't believe I almost forgot." He grimaced sheepishly. "I suppose I'm a little nervous," he said, handing Sam a photo that looked like it had been printed on a home printer. It was of a beautiful black woman with short, curly hair, sitting in a power wheelchair, and a man standing next to her holding a dog that was unmistakably Rocket. Sam would recognize Rocket's distinct coloring and markings anywhere.

Rocket was licking the woman's cheek, and she was smiling with joy. She had a ventilator hose protruding from her neck and her hands were resting on the armrests of her chair, her fingers curved in the telltale way that signaled neurological damage, like the effects of quadriplegia.

Sam felt his heart sink to his stomach like a stone, and he closed his eyes for a second. This couldn't be happening. He wanted to deny it, to say that it couldn't be true, but what reason, really, would this man or his friend have to lie about owning Rocket?

It wasn't like Rocket was of any value monetarily. He certainly wouldn't be wanted by a breeder, and there were plenty of other dogs out there that needed adopting. Why wouldn't this couple in the picture just go adopt another dog, unless they had a particular attachment to Rocket? The worst part of it was, Sam could believe that above anything else. Who wouldn't get attached to Rocket? He was an awesome dog.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," said Tilden with what seemed like genuine regret.

Sam felt a sudden tightening in his throat and swallowed against it, trying to find his voice. "He's still sore from the accident you saw on the TV. Is there any way you could come back and get him in a few weeks, when he's fully recovered?"

"No," said Ronnie. "How do we know you wouldn't abscond with the dog in the meantime?"

_This guy is a fucking moron_, thought Sam. "Look, I'm a college student, Officer Barnes, and I'm planning on going to law school next fall. I work as a bookkeeper at Shorty's Bar and Grill in the evenings. I'm not gonna throw everything away and move just so I can keep a stray dog."

Ronnie shook his head. "It ain't proper procedure. Are you gonna hand over the mutt, or do I need to call backup and get a warrant?"

Tilden flashed Ronnie a look of irritation and then said to Sam, "Mr. Winchester, I can assure you the dog will be getting the best care. Marcus doted on it before, and Felicia adored it. She'd never allow anything to endanger the dog's health."

Every cell in Sam's body screamed at him not to give in, but the logical part of him knew he didn't have a choice. He kept thinking about the picture of the woman in the wheelchair, how happy she'd seemed. If she and her husband were Rocket's rightful owners, how could he refuse them? Besides, he had no legal claim if the paperwork was as legitimate as it appeared to be.

His heart heavy, he pulled the door open wider. "He's right here," he said as he swiveled his chair around and pushed himself over to Rocket, who hadn't moved a muscle through the whole conversation between the humans.

Rocket looked at him with trusting eyes, and Sam felt like he was betraying him. He exhaled a harsh breath, feeling his throat constrict, and leaned to where he could scratch Rocket between his ears. "I'm sorry, boy." His voice was thick, and he paused for a second. "It's time for you to go home."

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ had just gotten done with her last class of the day. She was about to unlock the front door to Sam and Dean's apartment with the key Sam had given her, when she suddenly saw an extra shadow that wasn't hers looming behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she turned around to see Dean standing behind her. She put her hand over heart, relieved.

He looked totally handsome in the red shirt and black pants of his Firestone uniform. His dark-blond, sort of spiky hair and hazel eyes were highlighted by the early evening sun, and, even though he wasn't as tall as Sam, he was still at least an inch taller than she was—and that was saying a lot.

She was completely in love with Sam, of course, and would never be attracted to Dean in that way, but she wasn't blind. There was no denying that both Winchester brothers had been uncommonly blessed in the looks department.

Dean had been so quiet she never would have known he was there if she hadn't seen his shadow. "Mercy, Dean. You scared the crap out of me."

His face was shuttered and unreadable, the same expression he'd been wearing since he went to see Heather yesterday. He hadn't told TJ or Sam what had happened, but it was easy enough to figure out by his quiet, _I'm-fine-just-leave-me-alone_ mood that things hadn't gone well. He hadn't said more than three words to either Sam or TJ since he'd come back from Heather's, and Heather hadn't answered any of TJ's texts or voice mails today.

At first it seemed like he wasn't going to speak, but then he said, "Sorry."

She turned back to the lock and stuck the key in. "How was work?"

His tone was flat. "Peachy."

"You totally snuck up on me. I would have been easy prey. It's a good thing you're not a psycho."

"Apparently, I am."

She looked at him over her shoulder and caught a flash of raw pain on his face before he erased it.

She felt a mixture of heartbreak for him and a pang of disappointment in Heather. She straightened, forgetting about the key. "Good Lord. She didn't—did Heather say something like that to you?"

His face was devoid of emotion again. "You know, Sam and I should teach you some self-defense. You should at least know the basics."

She stared at him a second, having a good idea how he must feel. "She loves you, Dean. Just give her some time."

He rubbed his fingers over his mouth. "You gonna open the damn door sometime tonight?" His tone was a little harsh, but he grabbed TJ's heavy backpack off her shoulder and held it for her, taking the edge off his words.

"Thanks," she said, trying to keep the sympathy she felt off her face, knowing he'd hate it. She unlocked the door and they both stepped into the apartment to see Sam pulled up to the table in his wheelchair, reading something on the screen of his laptop.

TJ was surprised and glad to see him, and her heart skipped a beat. He was supposed to be at work. "Sam?" she said with a smile. "What are you doing here?" She walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, about to bend down to give him a kiss.

He looked up at her, but there was no smile of welcome on his face. His features were like granite.

She froze, instantly knowing something was very wrong.

Dean frowned and said gruffly, "Sammy?" The one-word question held as much meaning as if he'd given Sam the third degree.

"Rocket is gone."

She wasn't sure she'd heard right. "What?"

Sam exhaled. "Turns out he had a legal owner after all. He wasn't a stray, and they wanted him back."

TJ felt numb and sat down at the table with Sam.

Dean took the chair opposite her. "What happened?" he asked.

Sam explained everything, and when he was done, TJ looked at the empty dog bed by the sofa and felt her chest tighten. How could God or fate or whatever higher power have allowed this to happen? What was the point of saving Rocket's life if he was cruelly taken from Sam anyway?

"You gonna just let this go?" asked Dean.

"I don't have a choice."

"Bullshit."

Sam rolled his shoulders and tilted his head briefly to one side. "I called Bobby. He's starting an investigation, looking into Tilden and the Fords. I've been researching them on the Internet to see what I can find. So far, I haven't seen anything that looks off. Tilden doesn't come up, but Dr. Marcus Ford's name does. He made quite a name for himself a few years ago. Apparently, he was a well-respected surgeon until his wife was severely injured in a car accident a couple of years ago." He cleared his throat. "Tilden said Ford's wife is a high-level quad. Looks like Dr. Ford dropped off the face of the earth after her injury."

Dean nodded.

TJ caught Sam's eye. "You don't think Tilden was on the up and up? I mean, he did come with an animal control officer."

Dean gave her a cynical look. "TJ, anyone can be on the take. Would you really be surprised if that dick Ronnie Barnes was into something shady? It's weird that he just happened to be the officer that Tilden came into contact with, don't you think?"

She couldn't argue with Dean there. The dogcatcher had given her the creeps the first time she'd laid eyes on him. "But why? What reason would they have to go to all that trouble?"

Sam put his hands on the wheels of his chair, moving them back and forth absently in a small motion like he did sometimes when he was thinking or agitated about something. "It might be just as Tilden said. The Fords were attached to Rocket and just wanted him back." He gave her a grim look of determination. "But if there's something else behind it, I'm gonna find out what it is."

**XXXXXXXX**

"So, I'm sorry about Heather," said Sam from the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean was sitting in the driver's seat, and his only reaction was the hardening of his jaw as he stared out the windshield.

They were parked a few houses down from the residence where Marcus and Felicia Ford lived, and they'd been there for a couple of hours. It was the day after Wayne Tilden had come for Rocket. Dean had taken off from his job at Firestone, and Sam was skipping class.

They were staking out the place, watching it for any signs of weird activity and searching for peace of mind, at least on Sam's part. He sensed that Dean was worried about Rocket, too, although he'd never admit it.

Bobby had done a cursory investigation into the Fords and Wayne Tilden, and they all seemed legit, at least on the surface. Bobby was digging deeper just to make sure. In the meantime, Sam wanted to watch the house where Rocket had supposedly been taken. He wasn't sure what they were watching for. Maybe he was just making sure everything was as normal as Wayne Tilden had made it out to be.

At least one thing rang true. There was a small wheelchair ramp that had been installed next to the four steps leading up to the front door of the stately Spanish Colonial-style house. The Fords lived in the city of Coronado in The Village area, which also lent support to the assertion that Rocket once lived with them, since the house wasn't far from Coronado Beach where Sam had found him.

"I guess I shouldn't have pushed you so hard to tell her everything," Sam said, resuming his conversation about Heather.

Dean snorted. It was his '_It's not your fault, Sammy' _snort. "I came home with blood all over my shirt. I had to tell her. It had nothing to do with you pushing me."

Sam still felt a little guilty. "I think she'll come around eventually. Maybe she just needs more time to wrap her head around it."

"She thinks we're all nuts, even you and TJ. She thinks we're all into some role-playing game that got out of hand."

Sam huffed. "Put yourself in her shoes, man. It _is _all pretty unbelievable. I don't think even TJ would have been so easily convinced if she hadn't seen some of it firsthand."

Dean clenched his jaw again. "TJ would've believed anything you told her. You can do no wrong in her eyes."

"Heather loves you, too, Dean."

"Loved."

Sam frowned. "Is that what she told you?"

Dean's voice was hard. "I don't wanna talk about this anymore. It's over. I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did."

"Dean—"

"Let it go, Sam. I don't need to share my feelings and get all touchy-feely. I'm fine. It's not like I was in love with her."

Sam studied his brother for a moment, not believing him for a second. True, he'd never been around Dean the one time he'd gotten close to that other girl Cassie, had never seen him in love, but he knew Dean cared for Heather a lot. He didn't know if Dean was in love with her, but he wasn't even sure Dean would know love if it bit him in the ass.

Dean tried real hard not to show his feelings, but there was a certain way he looked at Heather, a certain way he touched her that might seem casual if you didn't know him, but Sam knew it wasn't. The fact that Dean was so attentive to her was something Sam had never seen from him before.

Sam tried to put himself in Heather's shoes and tried not to be angry with her for thinking they were all lunatics. He'd seen her once at Shorty's since Dean had told her everything, but she'd obviously been avoiding Sam and had been really busy waiting tables, and he hadn't had a chance to talk to her. She was rational and level-headed, and Sam hoped that if he could sit down and talk to her one-on-one, maybe he could start to convince her.

One thing was for sure, Dean had been miserable this past week. He'd been quiet most of the time when Sam was around him, and the few words he'd spoken had been abrupt, but Sam knew not to take it personally. His brother was hurting.

Dean took a swig of his coffee, finishing it off. "I'm gonna need to take a leak, soon."

"Wanna borrow a catheter?"

The corners of Dean's mouth curved upward. It was the closest he'd been to a smile since the whole thing with Heather. "Gimp humor. Fuckin' hilarious."

Sam grinned.

They sat in silence for a few minutes after that. Sam pushed his palms down on the leather seat of the Impala and lifted his buttocks for a second, doing a pressure release. He had also taken his ROHO seat cushion out of his wheelchair and was sitting on it as an extra precaution against skin breakdown, since he knew they'd be sitting for a long time. It was ironic that the cushion had cost nearly three hundred and fifty bucks, yet he couldn't feel it under his ass. He hadn't gotten another pressure sore since he'd bought it almost a year ago, though, so he guessed it was worth the price.

"You ever miss it?" asked Dean, breaking into his thoughts.

"Miss what?"

"Hunting."

Sam half-shrugged. "No. You know I always wanted out."

Dean gave a faint nod and stared at a point somewhere outside of the Impala.

"Be careful what you wish for, right?" mused Sam.

Dean looked at him sharply, but there was no pity in his eyes. "Which would you choose, your life now with the disability or hunting?"

Sam thought for a second, but, surprisingly, it wasn't that hard of a question to answer. "My life now. I'm close to having everything I've ever wanted. It's maybe not exactly how I first envisioned it, but..." He trailed off. He was about to say he was happy, but he didn't want to say it out loud, didn't want to jinx it.

"Shit happens," said Dean, "but maybe it's for a reason."

Sam gave a faint huff of agreement and slanted a look at him. That was about as philosophical as Dean ever got. "What about you? Would you choose your life now or the hunting?"

"I think the choice has already been made for me. I tried to get out of it."

Sam was skeptical.

Dean looked slightly pissed. "Oh, come on, Sam. You know I did. I didn't seek out the hunts. They found me. Just like this."

Sam frowned. "Just like what?"

"_This_," said Dean, waving a hand that encompassed the car and the stakeout. "This is a hunt, Sam."

Sam snorted. "No, it's not. We're just checking up on Rocket, making sure he's in a good home."

"Yeah. But how many normal people do you know who'd take off work and school and do what we're doing? Most people would let it go, Sam, even if they were bummed about losing their dog. Most people would have taken that dogcatcher's word, would have believed in his authority. We're doing this because we know what's out there, because we know that things aren't always as they appear."

"You still didn't answer the question. Which would you choose, your normal life or full-time hunting?"

Several emotions played across Dean's features, but then his face hardened. "It's a stupid question."

Sam's brows went up. "You're the one that started it."

Dean rummaged through his box of cassette tapes, apparently done with their conversation.

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean found a cassette, but just before he put it in the player, Sam reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "I miss this, though."

"What?" Dean eyed Sam's hand on his wrist.

"You and me in the Impala," Sam said, letting his hand drop away. "The road trips, the talks."

This time, Dean was the one to roll his eyes. "You're such a fuckin' girl."

Sam laughed and leaned his head back on the headrest.

Dean was about to pop a Black Sabbath tape into the player when Sam's cell phone rang. Sam looked at the screen. "It's Bobby," he said, and pushed the talk button. "Hey, Bobby. Find anything?"

"_Sam?" _said Bobby over the phone, sounding irritated._ "I swear you idjits would find trouble in a glass of milk..."_

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: Hey guys, thanks again for the reviews from last time. You guys are so awesome._ _Thanks to Sarah, who I still couldn't reply to for some reason. You rock, girl!  
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**_Thanks to SKZB for the great beta. Also, want to let you guys know that, unfortunately, I will probably have to skip posting next week because I'm going on vacation. So sorry to leave you guys hanging, but I'll be back on Wednesday, the 29th. Hey! It's a leap year! :) Don't forget about me, and I'll see you in two weeks.  
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**Chapter 5**

Dean sauntered down the sidewalk, casing the Fords' house and looking for anything out of the ordinary. The house was on F Avenue in Coronado Village. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were mansions built in the early 1900s through the '30s, and the Fords' house was no exception.

With its red-tiled roof, white stucco Spanish architecture, immaculate front lawn and grounds, and proximity to the beach, Dean guessed it had to be worth a good eight or nine mil, despite the fact that it wasn't on Ocean Boulevard directly facing the ocean. It was still close enough that there was a partial view of the beach and the Hotel Del, especially from one of the rooms on the upper floors of the house. There were several doors on the upper floors leading out to balconies.

There was nothing but a low, white stucco wall for security protecting the house in the front, but he couldn't very well go up to the front door and announce his presence, so he kept walking. The back of the house was protected by a much taller, thick, white stucco wall that was well above Dean's head.

On the other side of him was another mansion with a wall almost identical to the one for the Fords, so he was in a sort of alley between the two houses. It was broad daylight, and he would still be easily seen if someone was looking, but he had to take what he could get and hoped the cover of the small alley would be enough. He'd deal with whatever or whoever was on the other side if he had to.

He jumped up as high as he could and was almost able to grab hold of the top of the wall, but it wasn't quite enough. He jumped again with the same results and wished for a split second that Sam was there to give him a boost. Sam was waiting in the car, though, and he'd better keep his ass there if he knew what was good for him.

Dean didn't like the report Bobby had given them. Wayne Tilden had hidden his tracks well, but he was no match for Bobby. After a lot of digging and contacting a few hunters in the know, Bobby had uncovered that Tilden was an alias for one Gordon Walker, a hunter that some said was overly obsessed with killing vampires.

Rumor had it that Gordon would do whatever it took to gank a vamp and had been known to torture them before he killed them. Dean had no sympathy for vampires, but it was an unspoken law among hunters not to torture unless it was absolutely necessary for getting information. It was never a good thing to do just for the hell of it. There had to be something that separated the hunters from the monsters, a code that retained their humanity. Gordon had apparently crossed that line many times.

Bobby didn't like it one bit that the Fords were somehow involved with Walker and had warned Sam and Dean to come back later with more help and more information, but how were they supposed to get more info if they didn't do a little legwork? They'd found just about all they could find on the Internet and through Bobby, and nothing had told them why Gordon Walker would want to find Rocket and bring him back to the Fords, except that Walker and Marcus Ford had gone to the same high school in San Bernardino together their senior year.

Dr. Ford and his wife were obviously in a social class way out of Gordon Walker's league, so why would they suddenly renew a friendship with him after years of having no contact with each other? There was a possibility it was nothing, that the Fords were what they appeared to be. Maybe Dean would peek through a window and see Rocket happily chewing on all the boots he could destroy and being pampered by his new owners, but Dean doubted it. Nothing was ever easy like that.

Leave it to Sam to rescue a dog that led to a hunt. It might not be anything supernatural, but something wasn't right. Dean could feel it, and he was worried about what might happen to Rocket, as annoying as the dog was.

He took a few steps backward to give himself some running space and pressed his back against the security wall of the neighbor's house. His Colt 1911 handgun was tucked in the waistband of his jeans, and he could feel the nickel plating of it dig reassuringly into his skin. This time, he went into the jump with a run and was able to leap high enough to get a good hold on the wall.

He hung there for a second, summoning the strength to pull himself up. He gritted his teeth and scrunched his face in exertion, wishing he had Sam's upper-body strength. This little feat would be nothing to Sam. _Come on, dude. Suck it up_, he coached himself and gave a mighty pull, heaving himself to where his chest and then his waist were level with the top of the wall.

He could see a huge courtyard area with two wooden French doors opened out to it and could hear someone whistling and sweeping with a broom just inside the doors. He quickly scaled the rest of the distance over the wall and landed with a thud on the grass of the courtyard. He took cover behind a nearby, gigantic old Sago Palm, damn near poking an eye out in the process. The palm's feathery-looking leaves had spiny stems running down the middle of them that came to wicked points at the ends.

An older lady with casual clothing and dark hair streaked with gray walked out onto the patio from the open doors, sweeping her way outdoors. When she was done with the sweeping, she disappeared back into the house, still leaving the doors open. Dean could hear her whistling again and knew she was just inside the opening.

He waited and watched and couldn't believe his luck when the lady came back out with a couple of trash bags, which she was obviously going to carry to a dumpster somewhere. She went through a gate in the back wall of the property near what looked like a guesthouse—a white stucco, mini version of the main house. Dean seized his chance and walked right into the house.

He found himself in an area that was obviously used for entertaining purposes. There was a wet bar with stools along one wall and a large area with a pool table. Leather chairs and a stylish sectional provided casual seating nearby. There was a step up into another room, and Dean noticed a wheelchair ramp had been placed over it.

The sound of whistling getting louder spurred him to move on, and he stealthily explored the rest of the house. It turned out a lot of the windows were open out to the back, and he figured they were letting the house air out since the weather outside was breezy and perfect, as usual. He could smell the saltiness of the ocean.

As he moved silently from room to room, he was impressed. The place was a wheeler's dream with wide doorways, ramps at all the steps, ample space around furniture, and no carpet. The floors were all tile or hardwood. An elevator had been installed that went all the way to the third-story tower, where there was a rooftop patio and an awesome view of the ocean; the second story was just a bunch of bedrooms. The house was decorated like something out of Architectural Digest, and it was probably the nicest place Dean had ever stepped foot in.

He made his way silently back downstairs and heard voices coming from a room just beyond him, so he steered away from it and doubled back to the entertaining area where he'd come in. The French doors were closed and locked now, and the lady, probably a maid, was nowhere in sight. There was a door on the opposite side of the room from him, and since he'd explored most of the house except for that and the room where the voices were, he walked over to the door and tried it. It was locked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his lock-picking tools. He would grudgingly admit that Sam was better at it, but he was no slouch. There wasn't a lock he couldn't pick; it just took him a few seconds longer sometimes than it did Sam.

Once the door was unlocked, he carefully opened it and was surprised to see that it opened to a long stairway leading down to a basement of some sort. There was a keypad on the wall, but if it belonged to an alarm system, it didn't look like it had been set. He hadn't tripped any sirens, and the lights on the keypad were a placid, steady green.

He shut the door behind him and walked down the stairs, finding yet another locked door. This one was made of old, heavy wood, and faded letters had been burned into it that said "WINE CELLAR." The lock on it was more old fashioned, like maybe it had been there since the house had been built, and was more difficult to pick.

Finally, he got the lock to spring, and he pushed down on the heavy iron latch. The door swung open on surprisingly quiet hinges, and Dean stepped through the threshold, forgetting to close it as he took in what was in the room. _Son of a bitch. It's friggin' Frankenstein's laboratory._

The room was gigantic, spanning what Dean guessed was a large portion of the house. It had the cool, slightly damp feel of a wine cellar, but there sure as hell wasn't any wine in it. The stench of the place, a mixture of urine, feces, and death, was overpowering.

Two of the walls were covered floor to ceiling with cages full of various animals—dogs, cats, rabbits, mice, gerbils, guinea pigs—even what looked like a chimp and some kind of smaller monkey. They all seemed to be lethargic, like they'd been sedated, except for one. Rocket started whimpering when he saw Dean and wagging his tail.

Dean swallowed hard, the pathetic sight of Rocket in such a small, constrictive cage making his gut clench, and he wondered why Rocket seemed to be the only animal that wasn't sedated. Dean quickly scanned the room, looking for any humans that might be lurking in dark corners, but he was the only one. He strode over to Rocket's cage and was annoyed to see that it had some sort of electric lock that was probably unlocked remotely from somewhere else. "Dammit."

Rocket whined again.

"It's okay, boy. I'm gonna get you out."

Rocket tilted his head, his goofy, tan, milk-mustache beard at odds with the dire circumstance he was in.

Dean stuck a finger through the wire of the cage, and Rocket licked it. "I promise you, dude. I'm gonna get you out of there."

Rocket whined again and wagged his tail.

Dean looked around for something that might look like a control panel for the cages, but all he could see was a stainless-steel cabinet with a little bit of glass on the upper part of the doors. It looked like it was full of a bunch of medical supplies like IV bags, tubing, bandages, and the like. For the first time, he also noticed what looked to be a large, dead chimpanzee lying on a stainless-steel table. There were wires leading from the animal to a heart-rate monitor that was turned off.

"What the fuck?" Dean murmured. He'd seen weird things in his life, but there was something really creepy about this place, something that made his skin crawl. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he felt uneasy. Dr. Ford was doing something to these animals, and it definitely wasn't something good.

Dean had to walk past the inert chimp on his way to the supply cabinet, and he sidled by it, not turning his back on it, although the chimp hadn't done anything to make Dean change his mind that it was dead. When he reached the cabinet, the doors were locked, of course.

He broke out the lock-picking tools yet again and had the cabinet open in a few seconds. "Yahtzee," he said, seeing a console labeled with buttons and numbers on it. It was pretty high-tech looking and wasn't connected to any wires, but there was a red light blinking on it which indicated it was battery powered. He took it from the cabinet and made his way warily past the dead chimp and back to Rocket's cage, which had the number 21 on it. Dean pushed the corresponding button on the console, and there was a buzzing noise followed by the click of the lock opening.

Rocket became more excited, his tail wagging like crazy. Dean reached in to pick him up, and he licked Dean's face.

For once, Dean let him, grabbing the scruff of Rocket's neck and giving it an affectionate shake. He didn't approve of chick-flick moments from dogs either, but no one was there to see. He leaned back and gave Rocket a stern look. "If you tell anyone I let you give me gross kisses, I'll kick your ass."

Rocket barked, and Dean lifted him out of the cage and set him on the floor. "All right, boy. You wanna tell me what's been going on here?"

Rocket tilted his head from one side to the other.

"Never mind."

Dean began walking around the room, trying to figure out exactly what Dr. Ford was up to. Rocket, who was still stiff and sore from his accident, limped around, sniffing and conducting his own investigation. After a minute or two, Rocket started a high-pitched whining, and Dean turned to look at him. Rocket was limping toward the far end of the room, and Dean followed him and saw that there was another door hidden in a darkened corner. "Let me guess. It's locked."

Dean tried the latch on the door, rattling it a few times, and then realized it had an electric lock similar to the one on the cages. He was about to turn and get the console that he'd used to unlock Rocket's cage when, suddenly, he heard something. There was a muffled voice calling for help from the other side of the door. "What the hell?" he said to Rocket, who was sniffing loudly and doing his best to squeeze his nose under the door.

Dean quickly grabbed the remote he'd set down earlier and made his way back to the door. He took his gun out from his waistband, took off the safety, and held it at the ready in one hand while he pressed one of the few buttons on the console that wasn't labeled with a number. Nothing happened, so he pushed another one. There was a buzz and a click, like a prison door opening. "Well, that was too easy. This is the part where the crazy doctor comes down and catches me, right?"

Rocket ignored him, still obsessed with sucking all the smells out of the room just beyond the door.

Dean set the console on the floor and carefully opened the heavy steel door with his left hand. The first thing he noticed was the stench that hit him in the face. It was the stench of death, of suffering, of something...unnatural.

"Who's there? Can you help me? Please, God. Please help me." It was a woman's raspy voice, and it broke into a sob.

The room was dark, and Dean searched for a light switch along the wall, still holding his gun in his right hand, listening for any sounds that might reveal that he was about to be attacked. Finally, he felt a switch and flipped it. A fluorescent light flickered on overhead, and he almost gagged at what he saw.

Bodies were stacked on one side of the room, almost piled up to the ceiling. When he looked closer, he could see that some of them were headless.

"Most of the headless ones are vampires," said the raspy voice. "Probably a few werewolves and other random monsters thrown in, too."

Dean turned quickly, pointing his gun, to see a woman chained against the wall. There were stainless-steel cuffs at her wrists and ankles, and there was a steel collar around her throat attached to the wall, forcing her to stand. She was wearing what looked like a dingy hospital gown, and she was pale and emaciated with deep, bruising circles under eyes. Her medium-length brown hair was matted and appeared thin in some areas, like some of it had fallen out. The most disturbing thing about her, though, was that there were large chunks of flesh missing from her thighs and arms.

Rocket limped over to her and sniffed curiously, innocent of what was going on. Dean fought bile rising in his throat. "Jesus," he whispered.

The woman laughed hysterically. "I wish. I'd rather be crucified. It would be less cruel."

"Rocket, come!" Dean commanded, not wanting the dog near whatever this was. Rocket took another sniff of her bare foot and then did as he was told, limping back over next to Dean and sitting down. "What the hell is going on here?" asked Dean.

"Get me unchained, and I'll tell you."

His first instinct was to do just that, to get her out of here, but he was hesitant. She gave him the creeps, and he had the feeling she wasn't human. And why were werewolf and headless vampire bodies in the corner? "Are you a vamp?"

She smiled, but there was madness in her eyes. "I can be whoever you want me to be, but I'm not a vamp."

"Shapeshifter."

"Well, well. Aren't you a smart one? You want a piece of me, too?" Her expression turned scornful. "You humans are so self-righteous, but what makes you so much better than us monsters? This," she said, rattling her chains angrily, "is what humanity is all about."

"What have they done to you? Why?"

Her eyes glinted with hatred and then despair. "Please, just don't let them torture me anymore." Tears ran down her dirty cheeks. "I tried to fit in. I never took the shape of any human that was living. I've been poor Yvette Burke for years. She was alone, had no family to speak of, died a lonely death of cancer at the age of twenty-eight. I don't think she would have minded the life I made using her name. I did much more with it than she ever did."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Dean, but he didn't have time to worry about it. This was a shapeshifter, and he hated them. "You're a scavenger, a vulture."

"I was human!" she shouted. "I made myself human in all but genetics. I fell in love, got married, had friends, had a job. They took everything from me, they took—"

"You're breakin' my heart."

She curled her lip with contempt. "Eight months. Eight months I've been here, just like this, chained to the wall! Does that break your fucking heart? It should. You think it doesn't hurt, the constant standing, the starvation, the thirst?" Spittle flew from her mouth, and her eyes burned with something bordering on hysteria. "I begged them. Every time they came and took a piece of my skin, every time they left a painful, open wound that takes, oh, a couple of months to heal, I begged them. I pleaded. But then after—" She stopped abruptly, clamping her mouth shut.

Dean was repulsed. "Why does it take your skin months to heal? I thought shifter skin repaired itself within minutes."

"Healthy shifter skin does. Mine? Not so healthy. I haven't had food or anything to drink for eight months. I'm as close to death as you can get without being dead. It's another curse of being a shifter. Hardly anything can kill me, but then you probably already know that, right? I assume you're one of them, a hunter?"

Dean pointed his gun at her. "I got silver bullets in this gun. Tell me why they're doing all this, and I'll end your misery."

Her eyes were suddenly filled with terror. "No, wait! I can't—please," she begged, "just let me go. Let me get back to my husband, my life." She started crying again. "I swear, I've never hurt anybody. All I want is to live in peace and help others. I have to save him. I swear I'll teach him to be good. I swear!"

Dean frowned. "Save who?"

She started to sob uncontrollably, not answering, and Dean figured she was just rambling. She didn't seem to be playing with a full deck.

Just then, Rocket's ears perked, and he looked to the door and gave a low warning bark. Before Dean could react, however, a black man appeared in the doorway smiling, pointing a gun at him. Dean froze, his gun still pointing at the shapeshifter.

"Ah, Dean Winchester, I presume?" said the man. He seemed almost happy that Dean was there.

This was probably the crazy doctor, and Dean was wondering how he knew his name.

Rocket's bark took on a more menacing tone, sounding almost vicious. "Rocket, no bark!" commanded Dean. The last thing he needed was for Rocket to piss off some nut job. Rocket looked at Dean and whined, his tail wagging with uncertainty.

Dean's heart started to hammer, and he willed himself to remain calm. "Dr. Ford?"

"No. Wayne Tilden, aka Gordon Walker, at your service. It's a pleasure to meet the great Dean Winchester. Your reputation precedes you."

"So does yours."

Gordon nodded his head in concession. "Touché. I had a feeling you and Sam would find out who I really was if you dug deep enough. Still, I'm impressed. I thought I covered my tracks pretty well."

Dean indicated the pile of dead vamps with his head. "That your handiwork?"

Gordon shrugged. "Casualties of war. It's all for a greater good, though."

"He tortured them!" yelled the shifter. "Just like he's doing to me."

Gordon gave a humorless smile. "Who cares? They were vamps. Worthless, as it turns out."

Dean arched a brow. "What do you mean, 'worthless'?"

"Dean, this isn't how we should be having this conversation. Put your gun down, and let's talk about this like the civilized hunters that we are."

The shifter gave a bitter laugh. "He's not civilized. He's a fucking lunatic. Don't listen to him!"

Gordon gave a placid smile, ignoring her. "I'm sure, Dean—may I call you Dean?"

"Why, yes, Gordon. You certainly may," said Dean, mimicking Gordon's gentlemanly demeanor.

Gordon chuckled and continued. "I'm sure once you understand what we're doing here, Dean, you won't want to stand in our way."

"And if I don't put my gun down?" challenged Dean.

Gordon tilted his head, that same eerie smile on his face. "I've got first shot, Dean. You'll be dead before you ever get your gun aimed at me. But why does it have to come to that? Just hear me out; then judge."

Dean lowered his gun, and the shifter began to sob. "Please," she begged, "don't leave me here again. Please, don't listen to him. Please! It's hurts so bad." She heaved breaths into her body as she sobbed, and the sound of the air passing through her throat was disturbing, like she was having to drag in every breath. Her pain was almost palpable, and Dean felt a stab of pity for her, even though he sure as hell had no love for shapeshifters.

Gordon's features suddenly morphed into something cruel. "Shut up, bitch."

She shook her head, clenching her eyes shut in pure misery, those same pathetic, labored gasps wracking her body. Dean was tempted to end it all for her right then and there, but with Gordon pointing a gun at him, it probably wasn't such a great idea. He gave her a look that promised relief for her when he had the chance, but it was lost on her because her eyes were still tightly shut.

He looked at Gordon and loosened his grip on his gun, no longer aiming it. "I'm just gonna lay this on the floor." He arched a brow as if making sure that was okay with Gordon. Gordon nodded, and Dean slowly crouched down, setting the gun on the floor. Then he held his hands up in surrender and slowly stood.

Gordon's voice was friendly again. "Now kick it over to me."

"I didn't set the safety."

"Just do it," replied Gordon.

Dean did as he asked, and Gordon picked up Dean's gun, set the safety, and put it in the back waistband of his jeans. Dean cringed inwardly, not liking the idea of his weapon in anyone's pants but his own. Okay. Weird thought.

Gordon put the safety on his own gun and lowered it. "A show of good faith. Honor among hunters."

Dean lowered his hands. "Right."

Gordon stepped to the side of the doorway and swept his hand out in a grand gesture. "After you, Dean. I'll give you a little tour."

Dean walked steadily through the doorway, Rocket limping by his side. He didn't like having his back to Gordon, even for a second, but what choice did he have? Gordon had lowered the gun, but he hadn't put it away, and Dean had nothing. He thought about trying to knock Gordon's gun out of his hand, but Gordon was a hunter. He would be ready for it. Besides, Dean wanted to know what the hell was going on here.

He heard Gordon slam the door behind him, abruptly cutting off the pitiful sound of the sobbing shapeshifter.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam was uneasy. Dean had been gone for almost an hour now and should have been back from his recon of the Ford house. Each minute that ticked by made Sam more certain that something was wrong. He tried texting and calling, but he knew Dean would have turned his phone off in case a ring or text came at the wrong time, getting him caught.

Sam stared at the house, trying to decide what to do, when a late-model, silver Audi pulled out from behind it. Sam figured there was probably a garage of some sort in the rear of the house. _One less person there for me to deal with_, he thought to himself, and made his decision.

He opened his car door, reached back and grabbed the frame of his wheelchair from the backseat, and set it outside of the car. Next, he grabbed one of the back wheels of his chair and snapped it onto the frame, followed by the other. Once that was done and the chair was pretty much assembled, he grabbed his backpack from the backseat and hung it on the low backrest of his chair.

He leaned his left elbow on the seat of the Impala, shifting his weight so he could pull his ROHO cushion out from under him, and put it back in the seat of his wheelchair. He grabbed the roof of the Impala with one hand and the outer frame of his chair with the other and swiftly transferred his butt to the seat of the chair. Finally, he pulled his legs one at a time from the car with his hands and put his feet on the footplate, slamming the door shut once he was done.

He rummaged in his backpack, got his Taurus 9mm handgun out, and checked to make sure the safety was set on it. Then he tucked it behind him, in between his back and the backrest of his chair, where it was easily concealed but within easy reach. He couldn't feel the stainless-steel barrel or the mother-of-pearl grip of the gun against his lower back and made a mental note to be careful and not forget it was there. He didn't want to lean too far forward and expose it or cause it to fall out. That would be hard to explain.

He pushed himself up the street and let himself in the low gate in front of the house. It opened to a winding sidewalk that led to the front door of the Ford residence, and he wheeled up the wheelchair ramp he'd noticed earlier. It was nice to be able to get to the door without having to worry about steps. He reached forward and rang the doorbell, hearing the faint tones of a familiar melody he couldn't quite remember the name of as it rang inside.

"Can I help you?" came a voice through the intercom speaker on the same panel as the button for the doorbell.

He suddenly felt kind of weird. "Uh, hi. My name is Sam Winchester. I'm—I'm the guy who took care of your—uh, Dr. Ford's dog for a while. I was—well, I was hoping I could see him—the dog, that is, sort of check up on him, I guess?" He didn't know who he was talking to, but he decided to tell the truth. If Dean hadn't been caught, what was the harm of Sam coming to check on Rocket? These people shouldn't be suspicious of that if they were legit.

If Dean had been caught, then Sam needed to find him, even if it meant getting caught himself. They could hopefully figure out how to get out of whatever mess Dean might have walked into together. Besides, Sam's legs might not work anymore, but his gun damn sure did, and he still knew how to use it.

He probably should have called Bobby to let Bobby know what was going down, that he was going to make contact with the Fords, but it was too late. A latch had just clicked on the door, and it was slowly opening. Besides, Bobby still knew, in general, what they were doing. If something went wrong, Sam had no doubt Bobby would eventually send help, but Sam was glad his gun was within easy reach as he wheeled closer to the threshold.

Once the door was open, he heard the very faint whir of an electric motor, and a woman that looked to be in her early to mid thirties met him at the door in a power wheelchair. Sam could see now the vent tube protruding from a stoma in her neck and could hear the almost inaudible hiss of what must be a portable ventilator on the back of her chair. She was maneuvering her chair with her mouth through a sip-and-puff straw placed in front of her lips, and her arms rested, unmoving, on armrests. Her fingers were curved tightly into her palms.

There was a beautiful, welcoming smile on her face, her teeth perfectly straight and white, deep dimples in her cheeks. She had short, black hair in tight, curly ringlets that was held back from her face by a simple white band that contrasted with her coffee-colored skin. Her smile was the kind of smile that was irresistible, the kind that wasn't attractive just because she was pretty but held something much deeper, and Sam couldn't help but smile back.

She had the same kind of vitality that TJ had, a certain magnetism that drew a person in and made them feel instantly at ease. As she began to exhale, she said, "Hello, Mr. Winchester. It's a pleasure to meet the man who took such good care..." She paused while the vent inhaled for her, and continued to speak again on the exhale. "...of Van Gogh for us. Please, come in."

She put her mouth on the straw, and her chair backed away from the door, making room for Sam. He wheeled through into the light, airy interior of the stately old home. The walls were painted white with dark wooden beams exposed in the ceilings in the style of the Spanish Colonial Revival that had been so popular in the '20s and '30s in California.

The floor was an immaculate, darkly stained hardwood that was easy to roll on. Sam glanced at his hands and then his wheels self-consciously, checking for dirt.

The woman, who had to be Felicia Ford, gave a charming, silent laugh and waited for the vent to allow her to speak again. "It's okay, Mr. Winchester. Dirty wheels are welcome here."

He smiled, feeling more at ease. "Thanks. It's Sam, by the way."

"I'm Felicia Ford, but, please, call me Felicia."

Sam rolled forward, clearing the doorway, and gently took her hand. He gave it a polite squeeze, although it wasn't likely she could feel it. "It's nice to meet you, Felicia."

She looked pleased that Sam wasn't afraid to approach her. "Likewise."

He glanced at the door. "Should I close it?"

Her face was very expressive, and although her head rested on the headrest of her chair, she smiled and gave the impression she'd be shaking her head if she could. "VAS, shut door," she said in a distinct, unemotional tone.

Sam watched in amazement as the front door began to close as slowly as it had first opened.

"Pretty cool, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah. I wish I had one of those at my apartment."

"It's a voice activated computer system. 'VAS' is an acronym for that and is the wake-up word that tells the...computer to wait for a command. I can control lots of things like the stereo, open and close doors, set the thermostat, even...control the elevator to the upper floors of the house."

Sam looked around, trying to see any wires or evidence of the intricate system that was so vital to Felicia's independence.

"Wireless," she said, as if reading his mind. "There's also microphones hidden in every room that transmit to the computer." She gave him a mischievous smile. "I would offer you a seat, but I see you brought your own."

Sam ducked his head for a second and smiled. "Uh, yeah."

"We could at least move out of the foyer. Let's go to the den. It's less formal." She wrapped her lips around the straw of her chair and began to move toward a room a few steps down from the entryway and formal living room. There was, of course, a ramp that connected the two rooms, and Felicia rolled down it without hesitating, her chair traveling at a pretty good clip. Sam followed behind her.

When they were in the room, she spun her chair around to face Sam again. "Would you like something to drink?"

Sam quirked his brows. "Does the computer pour drinks, too?"

She grinned and waited the second it took for the vent to exhale for her so she could speak. "No. But it calls my personal assistant Inez so she can pour them."

"I'm actually okay," said Sam, "but thanks for the offer."

"And you said you were here to check up on Van Gogh?"

It took Sam a second to register what she meant. Van Gogh was the name she had given Rocket, but, to Sam, it didn't fit. "Oh, yes. I was—he was hurt, you know, and I guess I was hoping to see him again, reassure myself." Sam made a point of looking at his surroundings. "I'd say he's pretty much got it made, though, from the looks of things."

She gave him another charming smile. "I assure you he will be well cared for. He is quite important to my husband. Marcus was very upset when...Van Gogh was lost."

"Do you know what happened exactly, how Rocket—I mean, Van Gogh got away?"

"I assume you know how high he can jump and how fast he can run?"

Sam smiled. "Yeah."

"Well, Marcus took him out for a walk one day, and Van...Gogh got distracted by a cat and jerked his leash from Marcus's hand. Marcus...chased him, but Van Gogh can break the sound barrier when he runs. Marcus...searched for weeks for him, but there was no sign of him until we saw you on the news."

Sam nodded, feeling a twinge of annoyance at the mention of the newscast that had led to him losing Rocket. If the Fords were on the up and up, though, he couldn't blame them for wanting Rocket back. Sam would have done the same thing if the situation were reversed.

Felicia's dark eyes were suddenly filled with understanding. "You were very attached to him?"

"Yeah. I guess I was."

"I understand. It's hard not to love him. He's got a lot of spirit...and is smart, too. He makes me laugh. I wish I could see him more."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

For the first time, there was a trace of sadness in her expression. "Marcus doesn't let Van Gogh in the same room...with me if he's not around. He keeps him in a separate part of the house. Van Gogh's exuberance can be dangerous...for me. He sometimes forgets himself and tries to jump in my lap. Marcus is afraid Van Gogh could dislodge my vent...hose." The sadness was quickly gone and replaced by an ironic smirk. "That could be a slight problem for me."

Sam smiled at her understatement. "Yeah. I can see how it could be."

"You have an SCI, too, or is it something else?"

Sam wasn't put off by her directness. "SCI. T10 complete."

"C1-2 complete," she supplied.

It was just about the worst spinal cord injury a person could sustain and still survive. Sam tried not to feel sorry for her, sensing that, like him, she didn't want anyone's pity, but it was hard not to.

She smiled. "I don't do anything halfheartedly."

He returned her smile. "Right." After a pause, he said, "So, I guess—is your husband here? If not, maybe I should go. I don't want to impose."

"Oh, don't worry," she said. The look on her face made Sam imagine her waving her hand in the air in dismissal. "Marcus will be home soon. He went to the store for groceries. Besides...I was working on an article for Smithsonian Magazine about the Dutch painting masters. Trust me...I don't mind the interruption. It's my area of expertise, but I'm not really...in the mood to write today."

Sam could identify with that. "I know how that is. I'm working on a paper for school, and sometimes it's slow-going."

"Oh? What's it about?"

Sam explained that he was a poli sci major and told her about the paper he was working on for his capstone course. She seemed really interested, and Sam forgot for a few minutes why he was there as they talked about his research. Felicia was likable and easy to talk to, and she talked about the art history class she used to teach at UC San Diego before her car accident. Sam was glad to hear that she still researched and wrote articles for texts and magazines. Tilden had made it sound like her career was over.

They talked about academia and that she hoped to one day be able to teach again. Sam was impressed that UC San Diego had expressed an interest in having her come back on a part-time basis. They just needed to work out the logistics of accommodating her disability.

Sam knew a bit about art history, too, from a course he'd taken at Stanford, and they got into a discussion about the politics of Europe during the heyday of the Dutch masters. Before he knew it, forty-five minutes had gone by.

He excused himself and tried calling and then texting Dean to see if his phone was back on and to let him know where he was, but he still got no answer. He felt guilty that he'd been so engrossed in conversation with Felicia that he'd forgotten about Dean, and he was worried. Dean should definitely have his phone on by now, and he would've called Sam the minute he got back to the car and saw that Sam wasn't there.

Sam needed to somehow get Felicia to take him around the house so he could look for Dean, and he was about to ask her for a tour when a door shut in a distant room, and a man's voice yelled, "Felica? Inez? I'm back."

"VAS, com kitchen_,_" said Felicia to the invisible computer system, and then she said, "Marcus?"

Suddenly, the man's voice could be heard through a speaker near the door that Sam noticed for the first time. It looked similar to the intercom speaker that was outside the front door. _"Felicia? I'm back, baby."_

She smiled. "I'm in the den, Marcus. We have a guest I'd like you to meet."

"_All right,"_ he answered. _"Inez is in the kitchen with me. I'll ask her to put the groceries away."_

"Okay," said Felicia.

It seemed like such a mundane conversation, and Felicia was so charming, that Sam was having a hard time believing there could be anything suspicious about her.

A tall, thin black man with round, wire-frame glasses soon walked into the den. He had a distinguished air and looked to be several years older than Felicia, a bit of gray showing at his temples. He walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "How are you?"

Felicia dimpled at his kiss and waited until she could speak. "Fine, darling. Marcus, I'd like you to meet Sam Winchester."

Marcus gave Sam a wary look, and the way his mouth twitched made him seem nervous.

It was strange, and Sam's hunter radar kicked in.

Once she could speak again, Felicia said, "Sam, I'd like you to meet my husband, Dr. Marcus Ford."

Dr. Ford seemed to recover himself and moved toward Sam with an outstretched hand. Sam rolled forward a bit and reached out, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

The doctor gave a short nod of acknowledgment.

"Marcus, Sam is the man from the TV, the one who has been taking such good care of Van Gogh."

"Ah, yes," said Marcus. "Come to check up on us, have you?" The words were fairly innocuous, but there was something hostile about the man, like he thought Sam was implying they weren't capable of taking care of Rocket.

Sam was cautious. "Yeah. I hope you don't mind. He was..." He didn't know how to go on without sounding sappy, without admitting how much it had hurt to have to give Rocket back.

Felicia smiled with understanding. "Van Gogh was Sam's dog for two months, Marcus. I'm sure that was...plenty of time for Van Gogh to establish himself as part of the household."

"Yeah," agreed Sam, appreciating Felicia's attempt to make Marcus understand. "He pretty much owned the place, actually."

Marcus's face remained impassive, a little standoffish. "As you can see, he's in a good home."

Felicia had a slight frown on her face and seemed puzzled by her husband's unfriendly demeanor.

Sam felt uneasy. "Uh, I should go, but I was hoping to see him one last time."

"I don't think that's a good idea," replied Marcus. "Don't you think it'll just make it harder on yourself?"

"Marcus," said Felicia in an admonishing tone, "why don't you let him see where Van Gogh stays and sleeps when he's not in the room with us? I'm...sure it would make Sam feel better to see that Van Gogh is well cared for."

Marcus kept his eyes on Sam, but when he spoke, it was to her. "I don't think it's a good idea to show a stranger around our house, Felicia. We know nothing about this man."

Her frown deepened. "Well, I just spent a good part of the afternoon talking to him...and I think he's a nice young man."

Marcus looked at her, his features softening. "You never met anyone you didn't like."

"That's not true," she said. "I'm a good judge of character, and so is Van Gogh. If he likes Sam...then so do I." She gave Sam a reassuring smile.

Again, Marcus's demeanor was coldly impassive when he faced Sam. "How about a compromise? I'll go get Van Gogh and bring him in here, and you can see that he's none the worse for wear."

Sam gave a nod. "Thank you, sir. I would appreciate that."

Marcus gave a short, businesslike nod in return and, hands clasped behind his back, said, "If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back."

When Marcus was gone, Felicia gave Sam a look of apology. "I'm sorry if that seemed rude. Marcus is more distant with...people he doesn't know, especially since my accident. He is more protective."

"I can understand that," said Sam. "I went through something similar with my brother." His brother that had now been MIA for almost two hours.

It was obvious that Sam wasn't going to have access to the rest of the house, especially not now that Dr. Ford was home. Sam would see Rocket and make sure he was okay, and then he'd go back to the Impala and call Bobby.

It was a strange situation. Felicia didn't seem to be hiding anything, but Sam was sure Dr. Ford was. Did he know where Dean was? Should Sam pull out his gun and point it at the doctor and his quadriplegic wife and demand to know where Dean was? What if he was reading more into Dr. Ford's actions than was really there? What if he scared the shit out of Dr. Ford and Felicia for no reason? And, worst of all, they knew his name. He wouldn't blame them for calling the police on him if they were innocent.

He reminded himself of Dr. Ford's association with Wayne Tilden. Were they really just old friends? Did the doctor know Tilden was really Gordon Walker? He would have to, wouldn't he, if they'd gone to high school together? That realization made Sam more on edge.

"You look pensive, Sam," said Felicia.

"Oh, sorry." There was an awkward silence, and then he said, "So, Wayne Tilden must be a good friend of yours."

She looked for a second as if something distasteful was in her mouth. Her expressions were so vivid, and he was reminded again of TJ.

TJ was going to kill both him and Dean if they didn't get themselves out of this. She had no idea what they were up to. She thought Sam was in class and Dean was at work and that Bobby was still researching but hadn't really found anything. Sam hadn't told her about the stakeout, hadn't wanted to worry her.

Felicia frowned. "Wayne is—apparently, Marcus and Wayne were good friends in high school. I didn't meet him until after my accident. He's been...around a lot more since my accident."

That was too much of a coincidence for Sam's comfort. "They must be close friends."

"I suppose. Wayne is..." This time when she paused, it wasn't due to the vent. She looked like she was searching for the right word. "Well, as I said, I don't know him that well. He's seems like a nice enough guy."

Sam smiled. "And you never meet anyone you don't like, right?"

She smiled back, but there was not much humor in it. "There are always exceptions to the rule."

"So, it sounds like you're not that crazy about him," Sam ventured.

She looked down with her eyes, briefly furrowing her brow, and, again, Sam could imagine that she would be shrugging her shoulders if she could. "It's just that it was all a little strange. When I came home from rehab...he was living in our guesthouse and was suddenly a part of...our lives."

Sam frowned. "Any idea why?"

"I attribute it to the fact that Marcus just needed someone to talk to. My injury...has been extremely hard for him to deal with. I guess I'm glad Wayne has been there for him, although...Marcus had other close friends before the accident that I would have thought he would have chosen to confide in over Wayne. It was...like Wayne sort of just came out of the woodwork, you know?"

Sam didn't like the sound of that. Frowning, he said, "Does Wayne still live in your guesthouse?"

"Yes. Marcus said he likes having him around for security reasons. Apparently...Wayne has experience as a policeman or something." She took on a slightly annoyed expression. "Marcus has been rather vague about it. Wayne needed a place to stay...so Marcus allows him to stay here as a friend and also as some sort of security. As I said, Marcus...has become much more reclusive and protective since my accident." She looked a little worried. "Sometimes," she went on, "I think dealing with the SCI is just as hard or harder...on them, you know—our loved ones?—as it is on us."

Sam nodded, remembering Dean's "survivor's" guilt after Sam's SCI and his year of doing the celibate monk thing because he thought Sam wasn't able to have sex. Of course, Sam thought he wasn't capable of it, either, until TJ had shown him differently, but that didn't mean he approved of Dean's abstinence. His big brother was such an idiot sometimes. Sam loved him for it, though, and he really needed to find him. "I'm sorry," he said, "Could you excuse me for a minute? I need to try my brother again."

"Of course."

He called Dean's phone, and it went straight to voice mail. In the next instant, Sam heard a muffled bang below them-a bang that sounded disturbingly like a gunshot.

_**TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N: Hola! I'm back, and I'm giving you guys an extra-long chapter this week to make up for not posting last week. _**

**_I am not an expert on stem cell research, I have no medical background whatsoever, and I'm not a veterinarian, so please forgive any inaccuracies._ _As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, so let me know what you think!_  
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**_Thanks to my awesome betas sallyloveslinus and skzb._  
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**Chapter 6**

"I'm surprised at your carelessness, Dean. You tripped the silent alarm at the top of the stairs," said Gordon from behind him.

_Fuck,_ thought Dean. That was stupid of him. It hadn't occurred to him that the keypad he saw might not be the alarm he had to worry about.

"You can stop walking now," said Gordon.

Dean stopped, noticing stainless-steel shelving along the wall to his right that had jars of things that looked like organs and animal body parts (at least, he thought they were from animals) floating around in some kind of fluid. He grimaced in disgust. He half expected Gordon to be pointing his gun at him when he turned to face him, but Gordon was true to his word. He held the gun casually in his hand, hanging by his side.

They were now standing in front of the wall of cages that held the lethargic animals. Dean had never really considered himself an animal lover, had never been into animals one way or the other, and had never really understood Sam's lifelong need to have a dog. That didn't mean he didn't find the state these animals were in disturbing or that he approved of animal cruelty.

Some of the animals were too large for their cages, and there was no way they would be able to stand up and stretch if they needed to. At least none of them looked to be starving, which was more than could be said for the shapeshifter locked in the other room.

The stench of urine and feces didn't help the vibe of the place, and Dean arched a brow. "The maid doesn't make it down here to clean, I take it?"

Gordon smirked. "Very funny. I think you know that's not possible, Dean."

Dean looked up to the ceiling, wondering what Sam was thinking right about now. He had been gone too long, and he knew if he didn't get himself out of this soon, Sam would probably do something stupid, like try to find him.

"I know it seems unpleasant, but the work Dr. Ford is doing here could improve the lives of thousands."

Dean looked at him expectantly. "So, I'll bite. What's he working on?"

"A cure for spinal cord injury." The words hung in the air for a moment, and Gordon looked at Dean again with a confident, knowing smile.

Dean was stunned, and when he spoke, his voice sounded distant, like he was speaking through a tunnel. "What?"

"A cure for SCI, Dean. A cure for Felicia, Sam, and thousands like them."

Dean's brain started working, trying to fit the pieces together—the dead vamps, the captive shapeshifter, the animals.

"You can call it supernatural stem cell research," Gordon began to explain. "He's experimenting with cells from different supernatural creatures, implanting them in different kinds of animals, different combinations of monster and normal animals, trying to find the right one, the cure."

Dean was disturbed by the thought, but, at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder if this really might be a possible cure for Sam. "Has any of it worked?"

Gordon looked satisfied that he had Dean's full attention and looked down at Rocket pointedly. "Only one, so far."

Dean swallowed, his heart starting to pound, the pieces beginning to fall into place. Rocket looked silly sitting on the floor next to Dean's foot, his legs off to one side, like he was leaning on a bar about to hit on some bitch in heat—literally. Dean figured he was sitting that way because his bruised hip was still sore, and it hurt to rest all of his weight on it. He looked a far cry from an example of a miracle cure for spinal cord injury. He just looked like Sam's dog.

Gordon nodded. "Dr. Ford surgically severed the dog's spinal cord at the equivalent vertebra in a dog that is similar to Felicia's injury. His cord was cut completely in half, and he couldn't breathe on his own, had no function below that level of the spine. As I'm sure you've seen, he's better than cured. His motor function is vastly superior to what it was before his 'injury.' He can run much faster and jump much higher than he could before. I'd even wager he's faster and can jump higher than just about any dog you might put up against him."

Dean couldn't argue with that.

"Then there's the curious fact that he survived a run-in with a large UPS truck. That's something Marcus never considered, that the test subject would be able to withstand trauma that would kill a normal specimen, and it needs further investigation. The dog is the only success so far, though, and Marcus wants to run more tests on him, open him up to explore."

Dean looked at Rocket. "What do you mean 'open him up'?"

"Do exploratory surgery, stimulate his nerves while he's sedated to see how they work." Gordon shrugged. "You know, experiment. You see, Marcus isn't quite sure why the procedure worked with this particular dog, and he needs to find out why. He's tried to duplicate it again using the same cells from the shapeshifter you saw in the other room and a similar type dog, but it hasn't worked. The subsequent test subjects have all died, turned extremely vicious, or simply remained paralyzed."

Dean scowled. It didn't feel right, using Rocket as a test animal, but what if it meant a cure for Sam and thousands like him? He couldn't look at Rocket right now, didn't want to see Rocket's trusting eyes looking back up at him, and he was glad Sam wasn't there. His emo little brother loved the dog, and Dean knew the choice would be agonizing for him. "Will it—will the dog feel pain?"

Gordon hesitated. "Some."

Dean had a feeling that was an understatement. Gordon had a serial-killer vibe, the kind of serial killer that pulled the wings off flies and tortured small animals as a child. "Why isn't Rocket sedated like the others?"

Gordon's eyes shifted away for a moment. "Some are sedated because they became vicious after their procedures. They'll be euthanized once Marcus is done studying them. Some of them have been paralyzed in various ways and can't move. Others have been sedated and are still awaiting their purpose. It's more humane—"

Dean couldn't hold in a snort of derision.

"—since they are in their cages all hours of the day," Gordon finished, not missing a beat. "It would be impossible to let them out for fresh air upstairs, even for a few minutes. We can't take the risk of discovery, and Felicia is sharp and very curious.

"We learned that lesson with Van Gogh. Marcus wanted to test the dog's abilities once it was healed, so he made the mistake of taking it out to the backyard when he thought Felicia was resting. He wanted to see how high Van Gogh could jump." He looked up at the ceiling. "As you can see, the ceiling here in the wine cellar is fairly low.

"Anyway, Inez, Felicia's personal care assistant, is Felicia's arms and legs now. When Felicia heard Marcus in the backyard, she had Inez investigate, and the rest is history. Marcus told Felicia he had adopted the dog to be trained as a service dog as a surprise for her. She quickly became quite attached to the dog, so Marcus has to refrain from sedating it so that when Felicia asks to see the dog, it won't be groggy and make her suspicious."

Dean looked up at what must be around fifty captive animals, most of them dogs and cats. Was it his imagination, or were they all looking to him for help? _Come on, Dean,_ he admonished himself. They were animals. They couldn't really think, couldn't reason. They didn't know who he was or why he was there or that he had a brother with a spinal cord injury that ruthless experimentation on them might help cure.

They didn't know what was happening to them, why they'd been deprived of freedom, had to live day in and day out in a cage. They didn't know why they'd been hurt. They didn't have emotions, did they? They were just dumb animals—_innocent _dumb animals. Like Rocket.

Dean suddenly felt queasy.

At that moment, the door to the wine cellar swung open, and a sort of thinner, taller version of Cliff Huxtable walked through the door. He looked through his round glasses at Dean and Gordon in shock and then fear.

"Ah. Hello, Marcus," said Gordon jovially, ignoring Marcus's obvious anxiety. "I'm so glad you're here. I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine, a fellow hunter." He gestured casually with the gun toward Dean. "Dr. Marcus Ford, meet Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester, meet Dr. Marcus Ford, the man who's going to find a cure for SCI."

Dean tensed, not liking the desperate, scared-rabbit look in the doctor's eyes.

Dr. Ford scowled fiercely and hissed at Gordon, "Are you mad, Gordy? You brought him down here!"

"Relax, Marcus. No, I didn't bring him down here, but it's okay. Dean's a _hunter. _He's grown up with the supernatural. His father was legendary. I'm sure Dean has no love for the evil creatures I've brought to you. Besides, his brother has a spinal cord injury. I'm sure Dean is very interested in your work. Right, Dean?"

Dean nodded curtly, despite the fact that some innate part of him was screaming that what they were doing was wrong. But was it really? He sure as hell wasn't a potential member of friggin' PETA, and they were talking about a cure—a cure for _Sammy._ Dean would do just about anything to make that happen. He refused to think about the shapeshifter in the other room being tortured or what might happen to Rocket.

Dr. Ford stalked toward Gordon and sounded panicked. "He's upstairs! His brother, Sam Winchester, is upstairs. He's been talking to Felicia."

Dean's pulse surged. _Dammit, Sam!_ He wasn't surprised, though. He'd been gone too long, and he would have done the same thing if the situation were reversed. Still, he was going to kick his little brother's ass when he somehow got himself out of this mess.

Gordon looked at Dean with reproach. "I'm surprised at you, Dean. You brought your disabled brother on a hunt with you? I would expect you to do the legwork for him—I knew he would want to check up on my story—but I never thought you'd be careless enough to bring him along."

Dean was telling himself the same thing right about now, but he'd never let Gordon know that. "Sam can take care of himself."

Dr. Ford was wringing his hands. "What are we going to do, Gordon? What if they tell Felicia? She can't find out about this. She'd be horrified! She'd never understand, and it would crush her. She'd never condone it. You know that!"

Gordon looked at Dean. "What do you say, Dean? Does he need to worry? All you have to do is walk away, pretend you didn't see any of this. Sam doesn't need to know what's going on with his dog or anything else for that matter. When Marcus gets further in his research, to a point where he's confident that he has a cure, we'll let you know."

Dean clenched his jaw, hating the decision he faced.

Dr. Ford turned imploring eyes to Dean. "Please. Your brother has paraplegia, and I'm sure you know what that's like for him, but he's _lucky._ He can still be independent, lead a normal life. Imagine if he were quadriplegic. Imagine if he were like my Felicia, unable to..." his chin trembled, and he looked away for a moment. "Imagine if he couldn't move his arms, couldn't feed himself, couldn't bathe himself, couldn't—"

"All right, that's enough! I get it," said Dean gruffly, more emotion in his voice than he would have liked. He couldn't stand the thought of Sam being like that, and he couldn't help but feel for this man and his wife. Maybe they were right. Maybe he should just walk away, pretend he'd never seen any of it. But then he started to think it through. "How are you gonna explain all this if you do find the magic combination, if you do figure out what worked with Rocket? You can't publish a paper about how you found a cure for SCI using shapeshifters."

"Have you ever heard of Henrietta Lacks?"

Dean searched his brain. The name sounded familiar, and then it clicked. "She's the woman whose weird tumor cells were harvested in the '50s and have been replicated around the world, used for researching everything from cancer to the polio vaccine."

Gordon looked surprised. "Very good, Dean."

"I read. I'm not illiterate." He had run across the story of Henrietta Lacks and her cells when he'd been researching legitimate stem cell research, trying to find out if it held any real hope for curing Sam. It didn't.

Gordon held up a pacifying hand. "Didn't mean to imply that at all."

"So what do Henrietta Lacks' cells have to do with what you're doing?"

Dr. Ford spoke. "If I do find a cure, I will say that I found a modern-day Henrietta Lacks, that the cells replicate unusually fast and are remarkably curative for SCI. I say the donor is dead and buried, but her cells live on."

"You see, Dean?" asked Gordon, a perfectly reasonable tone to his voice. "Dr. Ford has covered all his bases. What harm are we doing? Sure, the animals have to suffer, but it's for the greater good. It's to cure people like Sam and Felicia, good people who didn't deserve the hand they were dealt by fate."

"What you're doing to that shifter is wrong," argued Dean.

"Yes, you are right," Dr. Ford admitted. "I've let Gordon handle that part of the research, dealing with the...creatures. If we promise to treat them humanely, will that change your mind?"

"Why don't you just work on legitimate stem cell research? Why not try to find a cure that doesn't involve animal abuse and potentially dangerous experiments with supernatural fuglies?"

Dr. Ford looked exasperated. "Do you know all the red tape involved with that, all the flack and opposition from the Religious Right? Even if I could have access to the materials I would need for research, the limitations are too rigid in this country, too stifling, even in the few states that support the research to a certain extent."

"Why don't you move to China or Sweden or somewhere, where it's legal?"

The doctor shook his head. "I have Felicia to think about. Despite the limitations on research in this country, this is her home. All her family and friends are here. I can't take her away from everything she knows and feels comfortable with for who knows how long. She's been through enough. I'm not going to subject her to a move to another country that might mean years away when I'm so close to success here using the shapeshifter cells."

He put his thumb and index finger together, leaving just a tiny space between the two. "I'm this close to finding a cure, Mr. Winchester. I can't worry about ethics at this point or whether the rest of the world might possibly find out about the supernatural and what that would even mean. All I care about is curing my wife."

They almost had him convinced. Another second longer, and he would have walked out the door and forgotten about what he'd seen, would have hated himself for knowing what was happening to Rocket and the other animals but would have found a way to live with it, if it meant a cure for Sam. But then he heard the muffled, yet unmistakable sound of a baby crying. He frowned. "What was that?"

Gordon and Marcus shared a look.

"Was that a baby?"

Gordon sighed. "I really wish you hadn't heard that, Dean. That's going to make it harder for you to accept all this, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" Whatever it was, he knew it couldn't be good. "Whose baby is that, and where is it?"

"Now what, Gordon?" said Dr. Ford, panic and dread in his voice.

"It's the shifter's baby, just born yesterday," said Gordon, answering Dean's question. "We thought he was going to be a preemie, but he seems perfectly healthy, albeit a little weak, even though his mother has been in captivity and is malnourished. It's amazing, really. These shifters are more resilient than we ever thought possible."

Dean's blood ran cold. "You're gonna use the baby for research, harvest cells from it like you did its mother, cut away pieces of its skin?"

Dr. Ford looked ashamed, but Gordon was almost fanatical when he spoke. "It's a _shapeshifter_, Dean. It's not human."

"Wait a minute. The shifter said she had a husband, a _human_ husband. This kid could end up having more human traits than shifter traits." He thought of Sam, of the demon blood in him. It didn't make Sam any less human. He was more honorable and compassionate that anyone Dean knew. "You can't treat that baby like you have its mother."

"You're losing sight of why we're doing all this, Dean. _Think of your brother_."

If Gordon only knew what Dean had just been thinking. If he got wind of Sam's demon blood, Sam might end up chained to the wall like the shapeshifter.

Dean wanted a cure for Sam more than anything in the world, but he couldn't go along with hurting a child, even if it did have shifter blood in it. He had to put a stop to this, and he didn't want Sam to know about any of it, didn't want him to know there was a possibility of a cure or what the price of it was.

Sam had already been through one hell trying to find a cure for his SCI with the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Dean didn't want him to live through another one, to have the possibility there to tempt him, to know what could be and what he had to give up. Dean didn't want him to have to make the choice _again_ between what was right and spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Dean would take on that burden this time.

Gordon aimed his gun at him, clicking off the safety. "I can see your turmoil, Dean, and I don't like the look on your face. I'm sorry, but I can't let you go."

Dean held up his hands. "What about Sam?"

Gordon tilted his head to one side with a look of dismay. "He's not going to let this go, is he? Whatever excuse we come up with, he's not going to accept it, is he?"

There was a look of horror on Dr. Ford's face. "Gordy, are you suggesting that we kill them?"

"Marcus, why did you come down here?" Gordon asked in a strangely soothing voice.

"To get the dog. Felicia wanted the other Winchester to see that the dog is okay."

Gordon nodded. "That's a good idea. Why don't you take the dog up? I'll deal with Dean, and then we'll figure out what to do with Sam."

Dr. Ford grabbed Gordon's arm. "Gordy, no," the doctor entreated. "I'm a doctor. My purpose is to save lives, not take them. As much as I want to cure Felicia, I can't sanction murder. I won't be a part of killing a human being."

Gordon suddenly grabbed Dr. Ford on his neck, thumb and index finger brutally and precisely squeezing the pressure points under the doctor's jawline. The doctor never knew what happened and crumpled to the floor within a second. "He won't be out for long," said Gordon, "so I'll make this quick." He aimed the gun at Dean's forehead. "I'm sorry, Dean. I wish this had turned out differently."

"You and me both," Dean said sarcastically.

Rocket suddenly gave a loud, menacing bark and clamped his jaws onto Gordon's leg, distracting him.

Not hesitating another second, Dean kicked the gun out of Gordon's hand, knocking it to the floor, but Gordon reacted with lightning reflexes, viciously shoving Dean against the stainless-steel shelves that were behind him. Dean's right side slammed into the edge of one of the shelves. Jars flew off and shattered, spilling some kind of smelly fluid on the floor. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain that took his breath away, and he trembled uncontrollably for a moment, clenching his eyes shut, trying to will the pain away so he could breathe again.

When he opened his eyes, Gordon was pointing Dean's own gun at him, the one that Gordon had confiscated and tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Dean's gut clenched, knowing in the next second he would be dead. _I'm sorry, Sammy. _

Gordon's gaze held the steely glint that every hunter got right before a kill, the one Dean had seen a million times in his father's eyes and even in Sam's. Dean heard the shot, but, oddly, felt nothing. He'd been shot before, and he knew it hurt like a bitch, but those times hadn't been fatal wounds. Maybe he was already dead, killed instantly, never feeling the bullet penetrating his forehead. Was that possible?

In the next second, the life went out of Gordon's eyes, and he fell to the floor, landing with a hard thud. Dean's gun was knocked loose from his hand and landed a few inches from Dean's boot.

It took Dean a split-second to comprehend what had happened, but then he bent down and picked the gun up, stuffing it in his waistband. The movement caused a stabbing pain in his side, and he hissed and grabbed his ribs.

The doctor held Gordon's gun limply by his side, a look of horror and shock on his face. "I killed him," he stated numbly.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Dean drew in a full breath of air and instantly regretted it. _Fuck. _The pain in his side was excruciating. Cracked ribs, probably. Cracked ribs that hurt like hell.

Rocket had come over to him and reared up, paws on Dean's leg, tail wagging furiously.

Dean reached down gingerly and petted Rocket on the head, despite the pain it caused. "You did good, little dude." Rocket's tail wagged even faster, if that was possible.

Dean knew he needed to move, so he gritted his teeth and cautiously took a step toward the doctor.

Rocket put all four paws on the floor and eyed the animal parts from the broken jars with interest, licking his chops.

"Don't even think about it," Dean warned, giving Rocket a dubious look.

Rocket gave him the Sammy eyes.

"Trust me. That is so _not _dinner." He took another step, and Rocket followed reluctantly. If Dean didn't twist his torso in any direction, he could stand to walk. He felt broken glass crunching under his boots and didn't want to think about what kind of smegma he was probably stepping in.

The doctor was breathing heavily and looked completely lost, staring at Gordon's body as if trying to comprehend that his friend was dead.

Dean reached forward with his left hand because it hurt too much to do it with his right and cautiously took Gordon's gun from him, setting the safety on it. "All right. I need you to listen to me."

The doctor still stared in shock at the dead body.

Dean nudged his arm with the gun. "_Look_ at me."

Dr. Ford slowly turned his head in Dean's direction, his eyes haunted.

"You don't want your wife to know about any of this; am I right?"

The doc shook his head like he was in slow motion.

"All right. Good. I don't want my brother to know about it, either, so here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna show me where that baby is. I'm gonna take care of it and the shapeshifter."

The doctor seemed to zone out for a second.

"Doc! Stay with me," he growled. The effort of raising his voice made his side hurt, and he clenched his jaw.

Dr. Ford blinked and nodded once.

"You're gonna take Rocket upstairs to Sam and your wife and act like nothing happened. Do you hear me?"

The doctor nodded.

"If I ever hear of any activity like what's been going on here, I will hunt you down, and your wife finding out about it will be the least of your worries." Dean gave him a hard, intense look. "Am I clear?"

There was a pained expression on the doc's face, and he slowly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was sorrow and shame in them. "I just want to forget about this." He swallowed and glanced at Gordon's body. "I guess I lost sight of..." He trailed off, giving Dean an imploring look. In a ragged whisper, he said, "I just wanted to help her. I just..."

Dean nodded. "Look into legitimate research. Don't stop trying."

The doctor swallowed and nodded.

"All right. Show me the baby and get Rocket upstairs. The gunshot probably raised suspicions, especially if my brother heard it."

The doctor grew nervous. "What—what do I tell them?"

Dean was starting to feel fatigued and there was an edge to his voice. "You better think of somethin' quick. Just play dumb, say it was probably a door slamming." He looked around the room. "Is there any other way out of here?"

"Yes. There's a hidden door that leads to a tunnel that opens up by the garage. It was put there during the prohibition days, and Gordon used it to smuggle his...creatures in that way."

"Good."

There was another weak keening sound of a baby.

"Show me the baby and get back upstairs. I know my little brother. He'll find a way to get down here, and I don't want him knowing about any of this."

Dr. Ford pulled out a drawer that was part of the locked cabinet Dean had gotten the remote-control console out of earlier. It was lined with padding and blankets, and lying in the middle of it was a baby.

Dean couldn't believe it had been there all along and he hadn't known it. The thought of the helpless baby shut away in a dark drawer made bile rise in his throat.

The doctor took out the tiny infant and held it in his hands. Sam could have easily held it in one of his Gigantor hands. The baby was wriggling its spindly arms and legs weakly and had on a tiny, doll-sized diaper but nothing else. The doctor had the decency to look profoundly ashamed. "I know it seems cruel, but it is like its mother in that normal conditions won't kill it. The drawer seemed the safest place to put it."

Dean had second thoughts about letting the doctor go. "You're a sick bastard, you know that?"

Dr. Ford looked away, not meeting Dean's gaze.

Dean gently took the infant from the doctor's hands. It was so tiny he could easily settle it in the crook of one arm and still hold Gordon's gun in his other hand. He nodded toward the door. "Go."

The doctor picked up Rocket, who started to squirm and whimper, giving Dean a pitiful look.

"Doc, figure out something to tell Sam and your wife. I don't care what you come up with, but Sam leaves with the dog. Is that clear?"

The doctor nodded.

"What are you gonna do with the rest of these animals?"

Dr. Ford thought for a moment, resignation and defeat in his eyes. "Set the healthy ones free or, in the case of the monkeys, donate them to a zoo, and euthanize the ones that are too severely...injured or are too vicious to survive."

Dean looked at him with contempt.

The doctor lowered his gaze and then looked up at Dean with intensity. "It'll be as humane as possible. I _swear_ to you."

"I know people, other hunters, who can dispose of the dead vamps. They'll be in touch. Just remember," said Dean, "I'll be watching you."

Dr. Ford left without another word.

Dean found the remote where he'd left it, near the door to the room where the shapeshifter was. He tucked Gordon's gun in an inside pocket of his jacket—it would make a good addition to the Winchester arsenal—and quickly opened the door with the remote, setting it down on the floor inside the door. Each move he made caused his breath to hitch. _Work through it, Dean. Work through the pain._ It was his dad's voice echoing in his mind.

He pulled out his cell, hoping that he'd get reception so he could call Sam. Sam's boxers were probably in a twist, especially after hearing that gunshot.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam's heartbeat quickened. He glanced at Felicia, who was frowning. "What was that noise?" he asked.

"I have no idea."

"It sounded like it was below us. Is there a basement underneath us?"

"There's a wine cellar, but we don't use it. We're not big wine drinkers."

"Don't you think your husband should have been back by now?"

She looked alarmed. "Yes, I suppose he should have been."

"Could you show me how to get down to the cellar?"

"I can show you the door, but there's no way for us to get down there. There's a..." she paused for a breath, "...very steep flight of stairs down to the basement."

_Dammit. Fucking stairs._ He wasn't going to let that stop him from getting to Dean, though. He'd figure out a way to get down to that cellar. "Felicia, I think we need to check on Marcus." His tone was urgent, but he didn't tell her he thought the noise was a gunshot because he didn't want her to call the police.

"But why would he be down in the cellar? We never use it."

"I don't know, but I'd feel better if we checked it out."

"I'll get Inez to go down there for us."

Sam shook his head. "Let me just go check it out. I'll figure out how to get down the stairs. Just tell me how to get to the cellar door. I think it'd be better if you stayed in here."

Her eyes took on a stubborn gleam. "Uh-uh. He's my husband. If you're going, I'm going."

"Felicia—"

"Sam?" It was said in a tone of warning, a tone that said he shouldn't make decisions for her.

Sam sighed. He could go in search of the cellar himself, but the house was huge, and it might take him a while. He had a bad feeling he needed to find Dean as soon as possible. "Fine. Lead the way."

She placed her lips on the sip-and-puff straw of her power chair, propelling herself ahead of him.

When they reached the door to the cellar, Sam looked at the stairs with trepidation. She hadn't been exaggerating. The stairs were steep and narrow, and there were a _lot_ of them. He could go down one step at a time scooting down each one on his butt, but then how would he get his chair down there? Call Inez?

He could push it down and hope it landed without too much damage at the bottom, but what if it didn't? He'd be without his chair while it was being repaired, or, even worse, would have to buy a new one, and he didn't really have the three thousand dollars it would take to buy a new chair right now.

He could just leave his chair at the top and resort to dragging himself around once he got to the bottom, but that didn't appeal to him either. He could go down backwards doing a wheelie in his chair, holding onto the rail with one hand, like he'd seen a guy do on YouTube—a guy that he'd thought was nuts whenever he'd watched the video. One slip and he could seriously hurt himself, and he wasn't about to take the chance of injuring his spinal cord again.

He was about to settle for the butt-scooting, calling-Inez option, when the heavy wooden door at the bottom of the stairs opened and Dr. Ford came bounding up the steps with Rocket in his arms.

Sam looked at Felicia. She was staring at Marcus with a frown of consternation. "Marcus, what—why were you in the wine cellar, and what was that loud noise?"

The doctor looked a little pale beneath his dark complexion and seemed extremely agitated. "I—I don't know. I heard the noise, too, so I got Rocket from his room and took him down to the cellar with me to check it out. I didn't see anything down there, though. Probably just one of the housekeepers slamming a door."

Sam didn't believe him for a second and his worry for Dean ratcheted up another notch. Dean could be bleeding out in the Fords' basement while he was up here wasting time. It was time to take action and find his brother.

He started to reach for the gun concealed behind his back and was almost startled when his cell phone rang. He reached for it instead of his gun and saw Dean's name on the screen. A bit of the tension in his shoulders released. "Dean?"

"_Sam? I'm on my way to the Impala."  
><em>

The reception was spotty, and Sam had to strain to hear. "Dean, I'm in the middle of something right now. Are you—is everything okay?"

"_Fine. What do you mean you're in the middle of something? Where are you?"_

"I'm, uh, checking up on Rocket. I've been visiting with Mrs. Ford," he glanced at the doctor, "and her husband. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"_Sam! The deal was you stayed in the car and waited."_

"You've been gone for almost two hours."

"_Hurry up and get back to the car."_

"Right."

"_Now, Sam!"_

"Dean, you're breaking up. I gotta go."

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean heard a click, and Sam was off the line. He put his cell back in his pocket and focused on the shapeshifter. Her head was slumped down to her chest, and she appeared to be asleep. She hadn't stirred at the sound of the heavy steel door opening or his voice when he'd been on the phone with Sam.

He walked over to her and lifted up her chin with his free hand. "Hey. Wake up." She was breathing, but her eyes were swollen from crying and still closed. "Come on. We don't have time for this." He only had a few minutes at best before Sam went back to the Impala and started asking questions.

Just then, the baby cried weakly. The shifter's eyes jolted open, searching around wildly until she saw the baby in the crook of Dean's elbow. She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob and looked at Dean with hope in her eyes.

Her shackles were stainless-steel, too, and Dean studied them, trying to find a keyhole or figure out how to open them.

"There's a remote." Her lips tightened in a hard line. "It's been months since they unlocked them, but I remember them using a remote thing of some kind. The cuffs are electric."

Dean quickly retrieved the remote off the floor where he'd left it, ignoring the protest his ribs made every time he moved. _Suck it up__. Work through it._ He kept chanting it over and over in his head.

There wasn't a button on the remote labeled "shapeshifter cuffs," so he pushed several buttons that didn't have numbers on them until he heard a loud click. The cuffs on the shifter's arms, ankles, and around her throat abruptly released, and she fell to the floor, her legs weak from God knew how long of standing and not being able to change positions. He realized then that she would be too weak to walk out of the tunnel with him, and the thought of having to carry her and her baby out with the pain in his side jarring him every step made him come up with a Plan B. Besides, how would he explain them to Sam?

"Okay." He bent down and helped her sit up against the wall, wincing yet again when the pain in his side overwhelmed him for a second. Willing it to pass, he placed the baby in the shifter's nearly limp arms. She found enough strength to hold her baby, who weighed less than a feather, anyway.

"I can't carry you out of here. My..." He shook his head. He couldn't admit to her that he was hurt. He was afraid saying it out loud would give the pain too much hold over him and he wouldn't be able to hide it from Sam later. "I swear to you this is over. I will send some people to get you out of here and get you home."

Her eyes were filled with a mixture of love for her baby and profound relief. "Thank you. You won't regret this. He—neither of us will ever hurt anyone. I just want a normal life for both of us. That's all I've ever wanted. I don't even know if—maybe—I _pray_ that he's not like me, that he's more human like his father, but I'll teach him—if he—"

"I know," he said, stopping her. He knew what she was trying to say. He looked at her for a moment, her name still triggering a vague memory in the back of his mind. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Yvette Burke."

And then he remembered.

She smiled with irony. "Yeah, that Yvette Burke."

He had seen it on the news months ago. She ran a nonprofit organization that had raised millions for cancer research and also helped the families of kids with cancer. She'd been missing for months, had disappeared without a trace, and the investigation had gone cold.

_Jesus_. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and thought again about Sam. Sam and this shapeshifter were the good ones, and it didn't matter that they had demon or shifter blood. This whole situation had been a stark reminder that human beings could sometimes be the scariest monsters of all.

"Why didn't you tell me? For Christ's sake, why didn't you tell me about the baby?"

She laughed without mirth. "Would it have done any good? Would you have believed me? I was afraid to tell you about the baby. You could have been as psycho as they were, for all I knew. I—I didn't know what you'd do to him."

Dean hung his head, remembering the disgust he had felt when he'd first seen her. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

It wasn't, but he appreciated her capacity to forgive him. He slowly got to his feet, again feeling the pain steal his breath for a moment.

She frowned at him. "You're hurt."

He gritted his teeth. "I'm fine." He nodded at her as a goodbye and made his way out of the tunnel Dr. Ford had shown him, hoping he could pull this off and that Sam would never know.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam ended the call, realizing Felicia and her husband were listening to his conversation with Dean.

Felicia looked bemused. "How strange that the noise sounded like it came from the cellar. I wouldn't think...a door slamming somewhere in the main part of the house would sound like it was below us."

Marcus shrugged. "I don't know," he said vaguely.

Rocket had seen Sam and started squirming in Dr. Ford's arms, his back legs and toenails digging into the doctor's chest.

The doctor grimaced and was unable to contain him. Rocket leaped from his arms onto Sam's lap, immediately bathing Sam's face in smelly dog kisses.

Sam was glad to see him. "Hey, boy."

Rocket's tail was wagging like a hummingbird's wings.

"Well," said Felicia with a smile, "I'd say he's glad to see you."

Sam smiled, and Rocket's ears pricked when he heard Felicia's voice, like he'd just now realized her presence. Her power chair was next to Sam's, and before anyone knew what was happening, Rocket leaped from Sam's lap to hers, putting his paws on her chest and licking her, inadvertently knocking the hose of her ventilator loose with his paw.

Dr. Ford got a thunderous expression on his face. "Van Gogh, no!" He yanked Rocket off of Felicia and threw him. Rocket landed on the floor with a yelp of pain on his sore hip.

Sam winced at the way Dr. Ford had thrown Rocket, but he couldn't blame him. The alarm on Felicia's vent was beeping in loud warning, and Dr. Ford was frantically trying to get the vent hose popped back into place on her neck; but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't get it sealed.

Felicia's eyes were wide with fear and her lips were opening and closing in the shape of an O, like a fish gulping for air.

"Dammit!" the doctor roared. He sounded on the verge of hysteria. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry." His hands were shaking worse now, and Sam wondered how Dr. Ford could have ever been the renowned surgeon he once was. Of course, he was working on his wife, which was a different ballgame from working on a stranger.

Sam rolled closer to them. "Let me."

The doctor hadn't seemed to hear Sam, and he was actually beginning to sob as Felicia's lips started to turn blue. "Please, God. Don't do this to me. I swear I'll make it up to you. Please, don't punish her. _Please!_"

He was becoming irrational, and Sam could see that Felicia was close to passing out. He shoved the doctor out of the way and reached over, grabbing the vent hose, praying that it was just a matter of fitting the end of the hose into the hole on Felicia's neck. With steady hands, he pushed it into the hole until he felt it pop back into place. The alarm was instantly silent, and the almost imperceptible sound of the vent pushing air into her lungs resumed.

Felicia closed her eyes, looking relieved. Dr. Ford had fallen to the floor when Sam had shoved him and was still shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. Rocket was sitting on his good hip, looking at all the humans like they were nuts.

Sam put his hand on Felicia's shoulder and remembered she couldn't feel it. He put his palm on her cheek instead. It was an intimate, tender gesture that he usually reserved just for TJ, but this was different. This was purely an act of comfort. "Are you okay?"

After a moment, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Her eyes shifted to her husband, and it was clear she wanted to comfort him. "Marcus, I'm okay."

Marcus buried his head in his trembling hands, still sobbing, and Sam wheeled over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Everything is okay," he said, but the doctor was inconsolable. Sam glanced at Felicia.

She gave him a look of helplessness and seemed perplexed. "I've had pop-offs before. It's never affected him like this."

Sam needed to get back to the Impala, but he wasn't sure if he should leave Felicia to deal with her distraught husband alone. "Is he—would you like me to stay—"

"I'll call Inez," interrupted Felicia. She seemed concerned and a little embarrassed at the same time. "I just don't know—I've never seen him like this. Vent hoses pop off. It's a fact of life with my injury. I know it's scary, but..." She faded out, at a loss for explaining her husband's behavior. "He's a doctor," she said, implying he should be able to handle it.

"I'll stay until Inez gets here."

Felicia blinked distinctly, and it was almost as if she had nodded. She activated the intercom and called Inez, who appeared almost instantly in the room. Inez was an attractive girl with dark hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She was dressed neatly in a crisp white top and black slacks. Felicia explained what had happened, and Inez went to Dr. Ford and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sir," she said with a slight Hispanic accent, "could I help you up?"

The doctor seemed to come to his senses, and when she offered him a hand up, he took it. When he was standing, he took off his wire-frame glasses and wiped his eyes before pushing his glasses back onto his nose. He blinked and trained his eyes on Sam. "I think it's best if you take the dog and go."

Sam was stunned.

Felicia looked as shocked as Sam. "Marcus—"

"Felicia, please." He looked at her with sorrow and grief. "I'm sorry. I had forgotten how exuberant he could be. I should have never pursued getting him back. This has almost happened before with him, and we just can't take the chance. There won't be a next time."

"But, Marcus, don't be hasty," protested Felicia. "You're just upset. Van Gogh was just excited. We can train him—"

"No." The doctor seemed to have pulled himself together and was adamant. "We're talking about your life, Felicia."

She looked angry. "Marcus, he's my dog, too. I'm not going to let you just give him away, especially not...after we just got him back."

Dr. Ford walked over to her and crouched down to eye level with her, taking her face in his hands. "Do this for me, then, baby. I can't..." He hung his head, shaking it. When he looked at his wife again, there was anguish in his eyes. "_Please_, baby."

The anger left her expression as she searched his face, and then she glanced at Rocket.

Sam wasn't sure what to think and held his breath, awaiting her decision. He understood both Felicia's and her husband's turmoil, and he felt a little guilty for hoping that Felicia would give up Rocket. After all, he'd been in the same position twenty-four hours ago and knew how she felt.

Rocket let out a yawn and lay down, putting his head on his paws and snorting, as if he were bored. He was completely unaware of the upheaval he had caused.

"Please, Felicia," said Marcus softly. "We'll get another dog, a real service dog, one that will actually be a help to you and not a potential threat," he glanced at Rocket, "however unintentional that threat may be."

Felicia frowned and then looked at Sam and back to her husband. It was clear she didn't understand exactly what had gotten into her husband, but, at the same time, she could see how distraught he was and wanted to alleviate his distress. Her expressive eyes were filled with denial. "Marcus—"

"_Please_, Felicia. I'm begging you. I can't go through what just happened again. I'll never be able to trust that dog around you."

Felicia was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she gave Sam a weighty stare. "He's yours. Take him."

Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. He knew how hard it had to be for her to say that. "I'm sorry."

She blinked, as if holding back tears. "I know you'll take good care of him."

Dr. Ford turned around facing Sam's direction but didn't meet Sam's eyes. "Please go," he said in a voice tinged with desperation.

Sam nodded. "Rocket, come," he commanded, and Rocket got to his feet. He wasn't as spry as he'd been before the bout with the UPS truck, but he was definitely better and seemed okay after being tossed by Dr. Ford. He limped over to Sam, wagging his tail.

Sam patted his thigh, the signal that Rocket should jump onto his lap. "Let's go, boy." Rocket had no problem jumping, despite his sore hip, and got himself settled, paws draped over Sam's knees. Sam looked at Felicia, not knowing what to say.

She spared one more glance at Rocket, as if saying a silent goodbye to him, and then focused on her husband, who was looking up at her.

"I'll show you to the door," said Inez.

Sam nodded and followed her out of the room, thinking about everything that had just happened. Dr. Ford was up to something. Sam was sure of it, and he wanted to know the nature of Ford's relationship with Gordon Walker. Why would they lie about Gordon's name? Maybe Dean had found something.

For Felicia's sake, Sam hoped he was wrong, that there was some logical reason Gordon had been going by an alias and Dr. Ford had gone along with it. But when were things ever logical?

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean would have taken a relieved breath when he saw Sam wheeling up the sidewalk with Rocket in his lap if his side didn't hurt so damn bad. He was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala and didn't know if he'd be able to get out again. Every breath he took felt like someone was stabbing him with a knife. _Suck it up, Dean, _he told himself for the hundredth time_._ He couldn't let Sam know he was hurt.

He'd made some calls to some old contacts of his Dad's while he'd been waiting for Sam in the car. The shifter and the whole mess of the dead vamps would be taken care of.

Now that the urgency of dealing with the situation had died down, he was having second thoughts. No matter how wrong Ford's experiments had been, it was probably the closest thing right now to a cure for SCI, and Dean had put a stop to it. It was for sure the closest Sam would probably ever come to a cure. Sam's spinal cord had been completely severed, not just bruised or compressed like the majority of spinal cord injuries, and modern stem cell research couldn't do much for that, even if there was a breakthrough and a cure was found.

But Ford had _severed_ Rocket's spinal cord, cut it completely in half, causing damage pretty much identical to Sam's, and look at Rocket now. He was like freakin' Krypto the Superdog. The shifter cells had not only fused Rocket's cord back together and made it functional again; they had made him faster, stronger, and almost indestructible. How else could he have survived getting hit by a ten-thousand-pound UPS truck?

It was Dean's job to watch out for Sam, and the thought of Sam not only being cured but being virtually invincible would certainly make Dean's job a lot easier—yet he'd put the kibosh on it. What the fuck had he done?

Then there was the issue of what he would tell Sam. How could he look his brother in the eye and tell him he'd destroyed his only chance at a cure? He couldn't. Sam was better off not knowing how close he'd been, and Dean would have to find a way to live with the guilt.

Had he been wrong not to tell Sam what was going on? Maybe Sam should have been given the choice. Maybe Dean hadn't had the right to take it away from him.

Dean thought about the shifter and her baby, of all the good the shifter had done with her life. But what if she _couldn't_ teach her son to live as a human? What if he had the gene that made him evil, that made him like most of his shapeshifter ancestors and he started killing innocent humans? The thought made Dean sick, and he suddenly had the strong urge to go back in there, to drag Ford back down to that wine cellar and make him start experimenting again. They were shapeshifters—monsters—and they held the key to making Sam walk again.

He watched as Sam rolled closer. He was proud of his little brother, proud of how he'd gotten his life back, and most days he didn't even see Sam's disability anymore. Sam could do almost everything he'd done before his injury, had found ways to adapt. Hell, he could probably help Dean on hunts if he wanted, but Dean would never plant that seed in Sam's head. He was happy, and Dean wasn't going to do anything to mess that up by dragging him back into hunting.

Sam had adjusted well after that first year of hell out from his injury. In fact, he'd done better than most in his situation. It sometimes took four years or more for people with an SCI to make a new life for themselves, to get over the anger and depression, to be able to move on.

Dean watched Sam's arms, the power behind each push of the wheels, Rocket sitting proudly in his lap. Then Dean's eyes strayed to Sam's paralyzed legs, his feet tucked compactly and too perfectly—too unmoving—on the footplate. Dean felt the loss again as if it were yesterday that Sam had gotten hurt. He'd thought he'd gotten over it, had moved on like Sam had, but today had opened old wounds. He wished again for the millionth time that it had been him that the poltergeist had stabbed instead of Sam.

He remembered how powerful Sam's legs used to be, what a fast runner he was, how he'd been an awesome soccer player that year he'd been on a team, how he'd loved to go for runs in the morning to clear his head, how he'd towered over Dean. He still did tower over Dean when he had his leg braces on, but it wasn't the same. Dean thought of the physical pain Sam had to deal with, the spasticity and all the other shit that went with SCI that most people never knew about. Dr. Ford had been so close to a cure, and Dean shut him down, had ruined Sam's only chance to be free of it all.

Maybe he hadn't thought it through. He'd been caught up in the moment, at the sight of that tiny baby, had let his self-righteousness get in the way of thinking about Sam. But it was over and done, and he had to live with it. One thing was for damn sure. It was his problem, and Sam could never know.

He went round and round, telling himself over and over that it was better that Sam not know, better that Sam not have to deal with the what-ifs, but the truth was that he was a coward, too. He and Sam had finally gotten their relationship back on track, and he couldn't stand the thought that his little brother would hate him if Sam knew what he'd done.

Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair and winced at the jolt of pain the movement of his arms caused in his side. Why wasn't anything simple anymore? Things used to be so black and white. If it was a monster, kill it. Simple as that. He wished he could go back to that, could get rid of the gray area; but Sam had grown up with demon blood in him. Nothing would ever be black and white again.

Sam opened the car door and Rocket leaped in, immediately wagging his tail and making a beeline for Dean. Dean saw it coming and stuck out his arm to keep the dog from jumping up and licking him. He gritted his teeth hard when the impact with Rocket jarred his arm, and, in turn, his sore ribs. He was sure he had a cracked rib or two on his right side. The pain was too great for them to just be bruised. He'd deal, though. It wasn't like it hadn't happened before, and it wasn't like he hadn't hidden an injury from Sam before, either.

For once, he was glad Sam was so fiercely independent. He usually had to fight the urge to want to help Sam get in the car and take his chair apart, but Sam could do it by himself and preferred it that way. There was no way Dean could have helped right now. He wasn't even sure how he was going to get out of the Impala once they were back at the apartment.

Once Sam had settled himself in the passenger seat and stowed the parts of his chair in the backseat, he looked at Dean and said, "Where the hell were you?"

Dean arched a brow. "Where the hell were _you_?"

Sam gave him a classic bitchface. "Dean, you were gone almost two hours. What was I supposed to do?"

"Call Bobby; call for backup. I don't know. Wait here like we agreed on. In case you haven't noticed, it's a friggin' mansion. I had to sneak around because there's servants everywhere. I kept having to hide behind shit. It wasn't like I could just walk around, check things out, and be gone in thirty minutes."

Sam looked back at the house. "Let's get out of here."

Dean started the Impala and pulled away from the curb. Once they were out of the neighborhood, he could feel Sam's eyes on him, and he glanced in Sam's direction. "What?"

"Aren't you curious why Rocket is with me?"

"I was hoping it was a mirage, that I was hallucinating. This mean the mutt's coming back home with us to stay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dean. You know you like him."

Dean snorted and then regretted it as pain spiked in his side. He fought the urge to wince.

Sam looked dubious. "I thought I heard a gunshot."

"Where?"

Another eye roll. "At the Ford house. Dude, why are you being so obtuse?"

"No need for bad words, Sammy."

"Dean, I'm serious. Something weird was going on there. Did you check out the guesthouse? Did you see Gordon Walker?"

"I didn't see anything or anyone besides maids."

"Did you see where they kept Rocket?"

"Yeah. Everything looked normal," he lied.

"And you didn't hear a gunshot?"

"No. Maybe it was a door slamming shut."

Sam gave him a skeptical look. "Funny. That's what Dr. Ford said."

"Huh."

Sam stared at him, forehead wrinkled.

"What?"

Sam kept staring as if trying to read him.

"You think I'm lying?"

"Yeah, I kind of do."

"Yeah? Well, join the fuckin' club, Sammy. Why don't you and Heather do lunch?" He'd meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out sounding way more bitter than he'd intended. He'd struck the intended nerve, however, playing on Sam's sympathy, knowing Sam felt bad that things had ended with Heather.

Sam's brows drew together for a second in a sympathetic look.

"So how did you get them to change their mind about Rocket?" said Dean, changing the subject.

"Rocket jumped on Felicia—"

"Felicia? First-name basis already, Sam?"

"She's a nice lady, Dean. Anyway, just like Walker said, she is vent-dependent. Rocket accidentally dislodged the vent hose from her neck with his paw, and Dr. Ford completely lost it."

Dean arched a brow. "Can you blame him?"

Sam shook his head. "No. But it was strange. I mean, the guy was a renowned surgeon, but his hand trembled so badly he couldn't get the hose back in place. I had to do it."

"Well, it was his wife. That's different from a stranger."

"Yeah. I thought the same thing at first, but Felicia said it's happened before and he never fell apart like that. I mean, the man totally came unglued."

Dean had wondered how Dr. Ford was going to explain away giving up Rocket, but it looked like Rocket had solved the problem for him. "So, he freaked out and told you to take Rocket?"

"In a nutshell, yeah."

"Huh."

"There's more to this, Dean. Dr. Ford has to know who Gordon really is if they went to high school together. Why would Gordon lie about his name?"

Dean almost shrugged but thought better of it. Unnecessary moves were not a good idea right now. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe Gordon wants out of the life. Maybe he's starting fresh. Maybe Ford is giving him an opportunity to live the straight and narrow."

Sam looked as if Dean had lost his mind. "Since when do you take things at face value, Dean? You're actually justifying what's most likely a shady connection between Gordon and Dr. Ford. Maybe it has nothing to do with Rocket, but I think this whole thing smells fishy."

"I didn't see anything weird, Sam, and I was in that house for nearly two hours. You got the damn dog back. Just let it go."

"Dean—"

"Don't make this a hunt, Sam. You're the one that said it wasn't. Don't go there."

Sam frowned. "_You_ are turning away from a possible hunt?"

Dean was getting irritated. "I told you, Sam. The hunts find me. I don't go looking for them, and that's exactly what you're trying to get me to do. Who cares if Gordon lied about his name and Ford went along with it? It's none of our fucking business. You got Rocket back. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Sam gawked at him with his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Dean ignored him.

Sam didn't say anything else, but Dean could feel him staring a hole in him as they drove back to the apartment. He was suspicious, and Dean was going to have to be on his A game to convince Sam that nothing out of the ordinary had happened at the Ford house. It was gonna be a bitch to hide his injury.

It would be a whole hell of a lot easier to hide if he just didn't have to breathe.

_**TBC**_


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N: I'm still not a medical professional of any kind. If a Band-aid won't fix it, I'm the wrong person to ask. I did do a lot of research on this, so I hope it is at least somewhat realistic._**

**_Thanks to skzb for an awesome and thorough beta and to sallyloveslinus for the great beta and for answering my medical questions. Any inaccuracies are my fault, not hers. :)_**

**Chapter 7**

TJ was exhausted. She'd been burning the midnight oil studying for finals and helping her professor with administering exams to undergrads, not to mention all the lab work she'd been doing. It was later in the evening than she usually got home, and she threw her keys, purse, and laptop bag down by the door, careful to make sure they wouldn't be in Sam's way when he got home. She'd had to dress professionally today in a blouse, slacks, and pumps. She couldn't wait to change into a pair of drawstring pajama pants and a T-shirt.

She sighed. She still had to study for another test tonight before she could go to sleep. At least it would all be over tomorrow because it was the last day of the semester. Even better, her professor was taking a winter vacation. TJ was looking forward to the Christmas break and having more time to spend with Sam, although he would still have to work.

Sam had been in the same situation as her. He'd been trying to juggle work, study for finals, plus finish and present his capstone paper. If she didn't sleep in the same bed with him, she wouldn't have seen him at all in the past week and a half.

As she walked toward Sam's room at the end of the hall, she saw Rocket sitting at Dean's bathroom door. He barked and nervously wagged his tail when he saw her instead of coming to her in his usual greeting.

She bent down and scratched between his ears. "Hey, boy. What are you doin'?"

He barked again and scratched on the door. There was water running behind the door, and it sounded like both the shower and sink faucet were turned on. Then she heard what sounded like a groan, and the toilet flushed.

TJ frowned and knocked. "Dean, you okay in there?"

"Fine," came his gruff response.

TJ rolled her eyes. In Winchester speak, that meant he was probably dying. "Are you sure? You're gonna need Noah's Ark pretty soon with all that water running."

"I'm fine, TJ. I'm just...getting ready to take a shower."

"Okay. You had dinner yet? Want me to heat up a frozen pizza?"

There was a beat of silence. "Not hungry. Already ate."

She looked at her watch. It was almost seven, a little early for their dinner hour. "Did you join Mrs. Pfeffer for dinner?" she teased. Mrs. Pfeffer was their next-door neighbor, a sweet, blue-haired older lady who often went to Luby's Cafeteria at five-thirty in the afternoon for dinner.

He didn't answer, so she shrugged and went to change her clothes. Rocket didn't follow her like he usually did. He stood guard at Dean's door. "Sorry, Rocket," she said. "He already ate. No baloney and cheese for you tonight."

Rocket whined and wagged his tail, not budging from his spot by the door.

After TJ had changed, she met Dean coming out of his bathroom on her way to the kitchen. His hair was wet, and he was wearing one of Sam's thick hoodies and sweatpants, which was weird. Dean didn't do hoodies. He was shivering, and his skin looked kind of pasty, despite a flush on his cheeks.

"Dean, are you sure you're feelin' okay?" She reached to feel of his forehead.

He jerked his head away and frowned. "Fine."

"You look like you could have a fever."

"I just got out of the shower," he said, like that should explain everything. He seemed to be breathing a little too fast.

"Why don't you let me at least take your temperature? You really don't look so good."

"I..." He looked like he was about to protest, but then paused and looked at her. Resignation slid across his features, and he sighed. "I think I might be coming down with the flu," he admitted. "I'm just gonna lie down and watch some TV in my room, turn in early. I'm sure it'll be better by morning." He sounded a little hoarse.

"Let me run to Walgreens and get you some medicine."

"Already got some. It's probably just a twenty-four hour thing. I'll be fine."

She wished Sam was there. He'd know what to do, how to talk to Dean. Dean obviously didn't want her mothering him. "Let me know if I can get you anything."

"I will."

She knew he wouldn't.

He went into his room before she could say anything else, shutting the door in an agitated Rocket's face. Rocket scratched on the door, and it was odd how persistent he was being. It was like he was worried about Dean, too.

She bent down, petting him on the head and scratching his chest. "Come on, boy. I'll give you some lovin'. You're so good, looking out for Dean." He licked her face.

She stood and headed toward the kitchen, making a mental note to tell Sam when he got home from his late-night study group that Dean was sick. He would be home late because the group wasn't even meeting until Sam got off work around ten.

Unfortunately, she fell asleep in the middle of studying for her last final around one-thirty—well before Sam ever made it home.

**XXXXXXXX**

Heather watched the scenery fly by from the passenger window of the ambulance. Rush hour was starting to die down a bit. Her partner Victor was driving, and they were on their way back to the station after working a car accident scene. The injuries had been minor, and the victims had refused to go to the hospital.

Now that the adrenaline rush was over from the accident scene, her thoughts kept straying to Dean. Actually, who was she kidding? Her thoughts were constantly on Dean unless she was working a call. Even when she was waiting tables at Shorty's and running her butt off, all she could think about was Dean.

The wall holding back her feelings was rapidly disintegrating, and each minute she spent thinking about him, remembering his gentle touch, the way his mouth felt on hers, all warm and surprisingly soft, made her miss him with a fierce ache that made it hard to breathe. Everything about him was burned into her memory—the funny expressions he sometimes got on his face, his snarky sense of humor, the kindness he tried to hide with his gruff exterior. How could he be crazy?

He was so smart, so confident and strong. She'd always felt safe around him, like nothing could ever hurt her as long as she was with him. She closed her eyes, remembering that last talk she'd had with him. God. She'd pretty much called him a psycho, and he'd been devastated. He was good at holding in his emotions, but he hadn't been able to hide that.

She'd started to rethink things lately, tried to open her mind up to the possibility, as farfetched as it seemed, that he could be telling her the truth. Maybe it wasn't really that difficult to believe. It was, however, getting harder and harder to believe that _all three_ of Dean, Sam, and TJ could have lost their grip on reality.

She'd seen Sam a few times at Shorty's and had tried to steer clear of him, but she hadn't missed the look on his face when he saw her, a mixture of apology and sympathy and something more, like he wanted to talk to her. Sam was so much more serious than Dean or TJ, so much more practical and responsible. He didn't seem like the type of person to go along with Dean's story unless it was true; but he and Dean were close. Would he stick by Dean's story out of some weird sense of brotherly duty?

She'd been hurt when Dean had first told her everything, had thought it was some sort of joke, but maybe she was wrong. If Dean was telling the truth, it would explain why he'd hidden a part of his life from her. She couldn't forget the look in his eyes the day he'd come to her apartment. There had been desperation and hope, and she didn't think he wanted things to end between them any more than she did. _"You mean so much more to me than that," _he'd said. It was the most he'd ever said about how he felt regarding her, and she'd been pathetically clinging to those words like a lifeline.

If he was telling the truth, it made her sick to think of the things she'd said to him, how much it must have hurt him, how hard it must have been for him to tell her. The look on his face that first night around the dinette table—he'd known. He'd known how she would react, and she hadn't proven him wrong. _"Have faith in me,"_ he'd said, but she hadn't. She claimed to love him, but she hadn't shown it. Either way, truth or not, she should have been there for him, tried to understand, gotten him help if he needed it.

That part of her, the part of her that tried to consider the possibility that it was all true—that was the part of her that was totally in love with Dean. Was she being rational, or was she just trying to make herself believe him because she wanted him back, because she was beginning to think she couldn't live without him? Was she trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, forcing herself to consider something the logical part of her knew was completely implausible?

She rubbed her temples with her fingers. She kept going round and round, trying to make sense of it, and it was giving her a permanent headache. Her heart wanted to believe him, but her brain told her she was better off not being involved with him and whatever he was into.

"You want some Advil, kid?" asked Victor, arching one of his thick, dark eyebrows. Victor Gomez was in his mid-forties and had remained an Emergency Medical Technician 2, never getting his paramedic certification, although his little finger held more knowledge of the job than Heather would ever know. Of course, he also had twenty years of experience on her, too. Burnout among EMTs was high, and someone with Victor's experience was a rarity. Heather considered herself lucky whenever she got to ride with him.

She shook her head and tried a smile. "I'll be okay."

He half-shrugged, as if to say, _Suit yourself._

They rode in silence again and had almost reached the fire station when another call came through from dispatch. Victor did a U-turn and headed in the direction of the call, another motor vehicle accident with a victim that was having trouble breathing and was in and out of consciousness.

"Ah, the joys of rush hour," Victor commented stoically.

"This one's been pretty slow, don't you think?"

"Oh, you just jinxed us," he chided. "_Never_ say the 's' word when referring to a shift."

"Oops. Sorry."

"Rookies," he mumbled to himself in disgust, but Heather knew he was teasing her.

Traffic was backed up, and it took them a few minutes to get through, siren blaring. When they got to the accident scene, the police and firemen were already there. The dispatch had told them it was a minor accident, so Heather figured fire was there just as a precaution. The police had set up cones and were diverting traffic around the scene. Victor had to park behind the fire truck, and the actual view of the scene was obstructed.

Heather quickly got out and grabbed the jump bag full of medical supplies out of the back of the unit, slung it over her shoulder, and started putting on the blue nitrile gloves that would protect her and any victims from germs and contamination. Victor grabbed the portable heart-rate monitor and defibrillator.

As she rounded the corner of the huge fire truck, she froze in her tracks, and her heart was suddenly in her throat. A black Impala had driven off the road into a ditch.

"Dean," she whispered, and for a moment, she almost panicked, her pulse hammering. It had to be his. What were the odds that there could be one identical to his? It was a classic car. There couldn't be that many like it.

Victor looked back at her as he walked past, putting on his gloves. Frowning, he said, "You okay, kid?"

_Get it together, McEwan. Get it together. _She took a deep breath, willing her hands not to shake, and forced one foot in front of the other. The closer she got to the car, the more her paramedic instincts kicked in. She began assessing the scene, looking for possible hazards that might be a danger to herself or to Victor, letting the adrenaline drown out her fears.

The dispatcher had been right. It looked to be a minor accident scene—no other vehicles involved, no pedestrians hit. As she approached the car, the policeman that was leaning into the vehicle stood up and faced her. She'd worked scenes with him before. His last name was Eichler, but she couldn't remember his first.

"Not sure what's going on with the vic here," he said. "We've secured the scene and you guys are clear to work. Driver is a twenty-nine-year old male, trouble breathing, disoriented. Brother says he passed out while he was driving and ran into the ditch."

_'Brother.' _She was sure now that it was Sam and Dean in that car, and her heart started to hammer. She set her jump bag down on the ground next to the Impala and took the policeman's place, crouching down next to Dean, who was, of course, in the driver's seat. Victor was right behind her. She took in a deep breath at her first glimpse of Dean, fighting an annoying urge to cry.

Sam's eyes widened in surprise when he saw her. "Heather?"

"Hey, Sam." She rummaged through the bag for her safety glasses, giving herself a second to steady her hands. She grabbed the glasses and put them on, looking at Dean again. He was sweating, yet shaking with chills, and his breathing was rapid, eyes closed. "Dean, can you hear me?"

His brow creased and his eyes fluttered open for a second. He muttered something incoherent and then his eyes closed again.

"You want to tell me what happened here, Sam?"

He shook his head slowly in a baffled way, and then his forehead wrinkled with worry.

Somehow, she found a way to keep calm and even managed a small, reassuring smile. Her voice came out soothing and professional, the voice she'd used a hundred times to comfort strangers. "Sam, everything's going to be okay. I just need you to tell me exactly what happened."

"Uh, he had just picked me up from my last final exam and was going to drop me off at Shorty's for work. He looked like crap, but when I asked him if he was okay, he said he was fine. Friggin' idiot," he mumbled to himself.

She nodded and focused again on Dean. His lips looked blue, and she grabbed his hand to look at his fingernails. His hand was disturbingly warm, even through the nitrile material of her glove, and his fingernails were a bluish purple. She kept her face neutral, trying not to show her concern, knowing Sam was watching her every move. She glanced at Victor over her shoulder. "He's cyanotic. Let's get him an NRB at 90% oxygen."

While Victor got the oxygen mask ready, she got her penlight and checked Dean's pupils. They reacted instantly to the light, and he flinched as if it hurt. It was a good sign. "Dean, it's Heather," she said in a loud voice, trying to get through to him. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

He continued to take shallow breaths, not answering. She pried his mouth open and quickly looked in it with her penlight, then felt the back of his throat with her finger, checking for anything that could be partially obstructing his airway.

He started coughing, and it sounded horrible, strangely dry and wheezy. He put his left hand on his right side just below his chest as if it hurt, although his movements were uncoordinated and it was a little hard to tell exactly what he was trying to do.

Victor handed her the oxygen mask. It had a reservoir bag that was connected to a portable oxygen tank, and she inflated the bag to a little over two-thirds full. She then placed the mask over Dean's nose and mouth, securing it with an elastic band around his head, moving with quick and efficient movements.

She began to take off Dean's jacket, and Sam helped her with the other arm, his brow furrowed and fear in his eyes.

"You okay, Sam?" she asked. "Why don't you let Victor check you out?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. I didn't hit my head or anything. We barely impacted when we hit the ditch. We weren't moving that fast because traffic was slow."

"Let him check you out, Sam." She arched her brows and eyed his legs pointedly. If they had been injured, he wouldn't know because he wouldn't be able to feel it.

Realization of what she was getting at stole across his features. He relented, giving her a short nod, but he wasn't too happy about it. She could tell he thought it was a waste of time but wasn't going to argue.

While Victor checked Sam out, she unbuttoned Dean's red Firestone shirt and pulled it open, exposing his chest so she could listen to his heart and chest sounds with her stethoscope. His heartbeat was too rapid, and his lungs sounded extremely congested. She didn't like the sound of it at all.

She looked at Victor, who was standing in the ditch on Sam's side. He had Sam's shoes and socks off, and Sam's loose jeans legs were pushed up to his knees. Victor was looking his legs and feet over, checking for breaks, bruises, or cuts.

"Let's get this one on a stretcher," she barked to Victor, referring to Dean, "and get him hooked up to the monitor and pulse ox, get an IV started."

Victor gave a quick nod of acknowledgment and then patted Sam on the shoulder. "Everything looks good."

Sam nodded, and Victor handed him his Converse sneakers and socks to put back on. Then he headed back to the unit to get the ambulance stretcher, which was similar to a hospital gurney. Heather took Dean's temperature.

Sam had one leg bent, ankle resting on his knee, and was putting a sock and sneaker on his foot. He gave her a questioning gaze.

"104.6," she answered.

He swallowed, and Heather thought his forehead might be permanently wrinkled with worry. "What the hell is wrong with him?" he asked.

She wouldn't normally make a guess because that wasn't her job, but this was Sam, and she was talking to him as a friend, knowing how much he loved his brother. "My guess is pneumonia, but I'm not a doctor."

He looked shocked. "Pneumonia?"

She nodded. "The shortness of breath, the severe lung congestion, probable low oxygen saturation in the blood, high fever. If he's low on oxygen, that can also cause confusion and even blackouts. Seems like he's having pain, the way he grabbed the right side of his chest. That can be another symptom. Have you noticed him coughing?"

He shook his head.

"Doesn't matter. Coughing is a common symptom, but in some cases, there's no coughing at all."

"I haven't really seen him that much," he said with remorse in his tone. "I've hardly been home lately, and he's been kind of reclusive since..." He trailed off, looking kind of uncomfortable. "You know, since you guys..."

She felt heat rise up her neck and hated herself for blushing. She looked at her bag, putting away her stethoscope, and changed the subject. "It's probably going to take a tow truck to get the Impala out of this ditch, and it's at an awkward angle. Would you...um, you want me to get a couple of the officers to help you out of the car?"

He finished putting on his other shoe and looked out the passenger window. There was nothing but steep, grassy ditch outside his door. "Yeah. That's probably a good idea."

Heather nodded and called to Officer Eichler and his partner, asking them to help Sam get his wheelchair and himself out of the Impala, relieved to have a diversion from Sam's scrutiny. She was in paramedic mode, but her feelings for Dean and the gut-wrenching fear she had for him were threatening to boil to the surface. _Stay in control, McEwan. Stay in control. _

If she was right and Dean did have pneumonia, the fact that he was cyanotic and almost unconscious told her it had progressed dangerously. She was distracted from the ominous thought when Victor came with the stretcher, just as the officers were lifting Sam out of the car and getting him into his wheelchair.

A minute later, she could see Sam roll up out of the corner of her eye, and she turned to him. He stayed back a respectful distance so as not to get in the way. He looked pale, and his expression was grim.

She tried to reassure him. "It's okay. We're going to get him out of there in a second, Sam. We'll be careful."

He didn't say anything, just clenched his jaw and nodded once.

She turned to Dean to let him know what was about to happen, although she was dubious as to how much of it he would actually understand. She cupped his cheek with her hand and pulled his face toward her, not liking the heat coming off his skin. "Dean? Dean, it's Heather. Can you hear me?"

It took him a second, but finally his eyes opened to slits of dark hazel visible through his long lashes, and she felt an odd sensation fluttering in her stomach. God, her body still reacted to him, lunatic or not. She ignored the feeling. "Hey," she said softly.

He frowned in confusion and weakly lifted his hand, reaching to pull the oxygen mask off his face.

She grabbed his hand and held it firmly to keep him from it, trying not to notice how good the weight of his hand felt in hers. "It's an oxygen mask, but don't freak. It's just helping you breathe. Can you answer some questions for me?"

He gave her a faint nod.

"What year is it?"

"2008."

"What city do you live in?"

"San...Diego."

"When's your birthday?"

"January 24th."

His voice was muffled by the mask, and she had to lean close to him to hear. She could smell the faint odors of the Firestone store—motor oil, tire rubber, and grease—that somehow smelled good on him, although they wouldn't on anyone else. _Get a grip, McEwan. He's seriously ill, and you're thinking about how good he smells? _She cleared her throat. "Year you were born?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and she knew he was smiling, even though his mouth was obscured by the mask. Was her reaction to him that obvious? "'79," he answered.

She looked away for a second, willing herself not to blush. "Good. How many fingers am I holding up?" She held up three fingers with her free hand, still holding his hand in her other.

He grimaced, clearly in pain, and her sense of urgency ratcheted up a notch. He was more lucid now, so she decided further GCS questions weren't necessary. He wasn't comatose, and they needed to get him to the hospital.

She started to pull away so she and Victor could get him onto the stretcher, but Dean held onto her hand with a weak grip that she didn't have the heart to break. His eyes rolled back in his head for a second, but then he opened them and locked his gaze on her. "October 27th...your birthday."

That took her off guard, and she felt a lump form in her throat. Before she knew what she was doing, she was brushing his hair with her fingers in a gesture of comfort. "Flirt."

He closed his eyes.

"Dean, stay with me," she said with intensity. "You're going to be okay."

When he opened his eyes, there was doubt in them. "Hurts."

"What hurts?"

He closed his eyes again.

"Dean," she said sharply, "what hurts? Your chest?"

He didn't answer at first. She thought he'd lost consciousness again, but then he winced and said, "Side."

She opened his shirt wider and leaned over him to look at his right side. There was bruising there, and she palpated it, feeling a bit of crepitus—a grating sensation.

Dean flinched at her touch and groaned, and it sounded like he cursed underneath the mask.

"Sorry." She suspected fractured ribs, but she didn't think it could have happened in the car accident. The bruising covered a large area and looked green and yellowish-brown, a sure sign of an old bruise. "Dean, when did you hurt your ribs?"

He frowned and opened his eyes, looking to the passenger seat. "Sammy?" His voice was a breathy growl. "Where's Sam?"

She gave his hand a soothing squeeze. "He's fine, Dean. Don't you remember? He just got out of the car a minute ago."

He shook his head.

She glanced at Sam. "He's asking for you. Can you say something to let him know you're okay?"

"Dean?" Sam shouted, "I'm okay. I'm right here."

Dean was still rolling his head from side to side on the headrest, getting more agitated by the minute. He was mumbling something about monsters and shapeshifters, and her heart sank. She didn't want to be reminded of all that. For a moment, she'd forgotten about it, had let the feel of his hand in hers and the scent of him make her forget everything that had gone wrong between them. "Dean, listen to me," she said. "We're going to get you on a stretcher for transport. Okay?"

He made no indication that he understood what she'd said, just kept mumbling, but then his eyes popped open, suddenly clear and burning. He gripped Heather's hand with surprising strength and said, "Don't tell him."

His words were muffled by the mask, and she wasn't sure she'd heard right. "What?"

"Don't...tell him."

"Tell who what, Dean?"

He rolled his eyes like she should know. "Sam...about ribs."

"Dean, I can't—"

"Promise," he said, with that same breathy intensity.

She couldn't promise that, so she changed the subject. "We're going to get you out of here."

He moved his head side to side on the headrest again, going back to incoherent mumblings.

"I think he has some cracked ribs on his right side," she said over her shoulder to Victor and Officer Eichler, "so be careful and try not to hurt him."

They both nodded, and she had them gently lift Dean's upper body from the Impala, mindful of the oxygen mask and tank. She grabbed his legs once his torso was clear of the car.

Dean's breathing, which had seemed a bit easier once she'd put the oxygen mask on, grew rapid again, and he let out involuntary grunts of pain when the movement jostled his ribs. It was impossible to keep from hurting him, although they were as careful as they could possibly be.

They lay him on the ambulance stretcher, and Victor began securing him with straps to it while Heather raised the head of it to an inclined position so it would be easier for Dean to breathe. Then she grabbed the portable heart-rate monitor that Victor had sat down near the Impala and moved to Dean's side. "How are you doing, Dean?" she asked as she started sticking the electrodes at strategic points to his chest.

"Hurts."

She hated that he was suffering and felt tears again sting her eyes. The look on Sam's face said he felt the same, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the tires of his chair.

She gritted her teeth and fought back the tears, struggling to maintain her professionalism. Falling apart wouldn't be any help to Dean.

"I know it hurts," she sympathized. She quickly entered Dean's info into the cardiac monitor and got it working. "I'm going to help you with the pain, Dean. Okay?" She turned to Victor. "Let's initiate an IV of lactated Ringer's at a TKO rate, and then we'll give him a two milligram IV push of Morphine every five minutes. Let's get that blood pressure cuff on him."

Victor nodded and was already handing her a large-bore IV needle and tubing, anticipating what she would need. She located a vein in the back of Dean's hand. "I'm sorry. You're going to feel just a small stick." She inserted the needle swiftly as she said it, trying not to think about the fact that this was _Dean_, trying to keep from freaking out for the hundredth time since she'd arrived on the scene.

She looked at Dean's face and found his eyes on her. "Am I dying?" he muttered through the mask.

She swallowed. "No. I think you have pneumonia."

He closed his eyes for a second. "People die...of pneumonia."

"Not you," she said, like it was fact.

He was staring at her again, and before she knew what was happening, he had pulled the oxygen mask off his face. Victor grabbed it, about to try to put it back on, but Dean pushed Victor's hands away with an awkward wave of his right arm, wincing at the pain the movement caused. He grabbed Heather's shirt and pulled her close to him.

She met his fevered gaze, unable to look away.

His voice was a breathy rasp. "I love you."

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam couldn't hear most of what was said between the noise of the traffic, Heather's soft-spoken voice, and the fact that Dean's voice was muffled by the oxygen mask. He was trying to discern what was happening by watching Heather's partner and the police officers nod occasionally at Heather's instructions, and by Dean's reactions. Dean seemed to be in pain, and Sam hated seeing it.

When Dean pulled the mask off, however, Sam clearly heard him tell Heather he loved her. He would have laughed at Heather's reaction to Dean's declaration if he wasn't so damn worried about his freaking idiot brother. She looked completely stunned, frozen in time. When she came back to her senses, she was flustered, and her hands shook almost imperceptibly as she tried to fit the oxygen mask back onto Dean's face.

Dean turned his face away, not cooperating.

Sam pushed himself closer—not close enough to be in the way, but close enough to better hear what was going on.

Heather had hardly shown any emotion throughout this whole ordeal, aside from when she'd first laid eyes on Dean. She had been remarkably in control, professional, and detached, except for that slip where she'd tenderly run her fingers through Dean's hair. Sam was pretty certain that wasn't something normal paramedics did. He was sure she still had feelings for Dean, and Dean had just dropped a bombshell on her.

She drew in a deep breath and seemed to rein in her emotions. She leaned over Dean, putting the mask over his mouth, ignoring the scowl on his face. "Keep this mask on before you get brain damage from oxygen deprivation," she said wryly.

Dean still had a hold of her shirt. "Mean it," he said through the mask.

Victor arched a bushy, dark brow and gave her a curious look. "Is he _that_ Dean?"

Sam wondered how much Heather's partner knew about her relationship with Dean. He figured they probably spent a lot of time together, so it made sense he would at least know something of it.

She rolled her eyes a bit. "Not a word, Victor" she warned, and then gave Dean a stern look. "You're not dying, Dean, so there's no need to say something you'll regret later."

Dean looked away in frustration, and his eyes caught Sam's. He looked like there was something he wanted to say.

"Just take it easy, Dean," said Sam. "Once we get to the hospital, we can talk."

That didn't make Dean look any more relaxed. If anything, he seemed more upset.

Something was dripping into Dean's IV from a bag of clear fluid that Victor was holding up, and Heather was injecting something into a port in the IV. She glanced at Sam, one side of her mouth quirked. "No telling what he'll be saying once this morphine kicks in."

Sam gave a halfhearted smile. He wanted to tell her that Dean probably really did mean it, but now wasn't the time or the place. All he wanted to do was get his brother to the hospital and have a doctor tell him that everything was going to be okay.

"All right. Let's go," said Heather, and Sam watched as she and Victor rolled Dean to the ambulance and loaded him in the back.

One of the policemen approached Sam. "Can we give you a ride to the hospital?"

Sam was about to accept when Heather yelled at them from the ambulance, "He's riding with us. Hurry, Sam!"

She didn't need to tell him twice.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam was in the ER waiting room of the hospital, and he was beginning to know it far too well. He'd been admitted to this hospital twice—and that didn't include the months of physical therapy he'd done there—and TJ had been there last spring and now Dean. If he never saw the inside of the place again, he'd die a happy man.

An hour had gone by since they'd brought Dean in. Heather had burst onto the scene spouting out all of Dean's vitals and apprising the ER doc of Dean's condition. She had paused in her litany of medical jargon to tell Sam that she would be out as soon as possible once she had some news and had then disappeared behind the doors to the ER examination area.

Sam was in his wheelchair, sitting near a row of blue chairs along a wall of the waiting room. TJ was on her way, and he wished she would hurry and get there. She had been in the middle of helping the professor she worked for administer a final, but she should be there any minute.

Sam felt drained by everything that had happened and felt a headache coming on. He leaned forward, elbows on his legs, head resting in his hands.

The more he thought about it, the more he found it hard to believe that Dean had contracted pneumonia. He couldn't ever remember a time when Dean had been sick, except for maybe food poisoning once, and it had to have been some pretty strong bacteria that time that had brought Dean down. After all, Dean had been eating questionable substances his entire life. It was a wonder he hadn't gotten food poisoning more often. If Dean's body could fight off botulism and God knew what else on a daily basis, how could he have gotten pneumonia?

How long had he been sick? Sam had hardly seen him in the days since their stakeout of the Ford house when he'd gotten Rocket back. Dean had kept to himself, and Sam had been so busy with work, school, TJ, and Rocket that he hadn't noticed anything, other than the fact that Dean hadn't been eating breakfast in the mornings like he usually did. That should have clued him in right there. Dean never missed a meal.

He felt guilt spread through him. He should have known Dean was sick. He should have made time for his brother. There's no way he wouldn't have noticed something was wrong if he'd spent even five minutes with Dean in the past week and a half.

Dean had probably not wanted to bother Sam or TJ with the fact that he was ill, knowing what a stressful time of year it was for them. Sam could see him doing something stupidly selfless like that. He'd probably been self-medicating for who knew how long, working through the illness like their dad had ingrained in them to do.

Sam was brought out of his musings by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see TJ and was glad she was there. She was dressed more professionally because of work, her hair down and framing her face instead of in its usual ponytail.

She bent down and gave him a long, tight hug and then sat down in the blue chair nearest him. He swiveled and rolled up as close as he could get, facing her. "Hey."

"Are you okay?" There was concern in her eyes, and she grabbed one of his hands in both of hers, causing him to let go of the death grip he didn't realize he had on his wheels. The warmth of her hands wrapped around his was soothing.

"I'm fine."

"What happened?"

He inhaled deeply and then exhaled. "Dean started having trouble breathing and passed out while he was driving. We were on our way to Shorty's to take me to work, and he ran off the road into a ditch."

"Oh, my Lord. Is he okay?"

"I don't know. Heather was one of the paramedics on the scene. She thought he might have pneumonia."

TJ's brow creased. "Pneumonia?"

"She wasn't sure. I don't think she was really supposed to say anything. Did you notice anything? Did you hear him coughing or anything recently?"

The blood suddenly seemed to drain from her face, and she looked pale. "Shit, Sam. Last night, he—I thought he might have a fever. He grudgingly admitted he thought he might have the flu. I tried to get him to let me take his temp, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't let me do anything for him. I was going to tell you when you got home, but I fell asleep, and then we were in such a hurry this morning..." Her chin trembled. "Oh, God, Sam. I should have told you. I should have texted you or called. This is my fault." She steepled her hands, resting her chin on her fingertips, a stricken look on her face. "I'm so sorry."

He pulled her into a hug. "Hey, it's not your fault. You didn't know it was this serious, and you've had a lot on your plate these last few weeks."

She leaned back and shook her head. "I should have said something. We could have at least prevented him from driving the Impala into a ditch."

He exhaled a deep breath, feeling the same guilt she felt. "God, TJ. Why didn't _I_ notice something?"

She smiled, but it was a little wry and filled with regret. "Um, maybe because it's the end of the fall semester. Maybe because you had to study for and take finals, finish your capstone paper and present it to the panel—which I'm sure wasn't stressful at all—plus work at Shorty's, take care of and walk Rocket, and, most important of all, pay attention to me."

"I should have made time for Dean, too."

"Well, it's not exactly like he's been available. Last night was the first time I'd seen him in days. I think he was avoiding me."

He rested his forearms on his legs and took her hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. "Probably both of us. He sort of hibernates when he's hurt or sick."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I should have been more persistent. If we'd gotten him to a doctor last night—"

"It's not your fault," he repeated, shaking his head. He stared at the circles his thumb made on the smooth skin of her hand. She had long, graceful fingers. "This is on me. You don't know him like I do. He's good at hiding when something's wrong with him or making it less than it is, but I would have known if I'd been paying attention."

They were quiet for a moment, and he rested his head in his hands, feeling a sick sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. Dean had looked so bad. What if he died? What if he died because Sam had been too busy to notice something was wrong with him?

"Hey." She took his face in her hands and held his gaze, her brown eyes warm and comforting. "It's Dean. He's stubborn as a mule. Something as normal as pneumonia isn't gonna be what gets him. He'll go out in a blaze of glory, hopefully when he's a hundred."

She always seemed to know what he was thinking, and she made him feel a little better. He took her wrists in his hands and tugged, pulling her hands from his face and kissing her fingers. He was glad she was there to share his fear and uncertainty, that he wasn't alone, that he didn't have to pretend with her.

He transferred into the regular chair next to her and put his arm around her. She lay her head on his shoulder, and it was like they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

"What are the odds that Heather would be the one to show up?" she asked.

He snorted. "I don't know, but she got an earful. Dean told her he loved her."

"You're kidding."

He shook his head. "No. He was confused and in pain. I think he thought he was dying."

"Poor Dean," she replied softly. There was guilt in her voice again, and Sam felt bad that she was still blaming herself.

"It's okay, TJ. It would take something drastic to make Dean admit that. Maybe something good will come of all this."

"So, what did Heather do when Dean said he loved her?"

"She didn't say anything. I think she thought he was delirious or oxygen deprived or something."

TJ gave a short laugh. "You think she still loves him?"

"Judging by the look on her face when she first saw him in the Impala? Yeah. There was a moment of shock and absolute fear on her face when she realized it was Dean. She was very efficient and professional after that, really knew her stuff, but..." He trailed off, thinking about the way she had touched Dean and the looks of concern that had slipped through her mask of professionalism. "She couldn't totally hide her feelings. Maybe she'll come around eventually, you know, about the hunting stuff."

TJ gave a faint nod. "Yeah. Let's hope so for both their sakes."

At that moment, Heather walked into the room looking tired. She came over and sat down on the other side of TJ. A few strands of coppery hair had fallen out of its ponytail holder and fell in tendrils around her face, and she brushed it back with her fingers, tucking it behind her ears.

TJ lifted her head off Sam's shoulder and put her arm around Heather, giving her a hug. "Hey, girl. Sam said you were awesome out there."

Heather seemed a little uncomfortable with TJ's show of affection at first but then seemed to relax. "Thanks. It's my job, though," she said modestly.

TJ gave her a skeptical look. "It was _Dean_, Heather. That couldn't have been easy."

Heather looked down and cleared her throat. "They're pretty certain it's pneumonia in both lungs," she said, ignoring TJ's comment. She trained her pale-blue eyes on Sam. "They're doing a test to determine which bacteria are involved so they can get him on the right antibiotic. They did a chest x-ray, and they're taking him up for a CT scan now."

Sam frowned. "Why a CT scan?"

"He's got three fractured ribs on his right side."

He was surprised. "Fractured ribs?"

She nodded. "The x-ray didn't show that any bone had broken loose, but they want to make sure. Also, they need to make sure there's no soft tissue damage."

"Do the ribs have anything to do with causing the pneumonia?"

"Dr. Vara, the ER doc, should probably be talking to you about this, but, yeah. If his breathing has been restricted because of pain from the ribs, that, coupled with the environment he works in—breathing in dust and grease and who knows what else—well, it's a bad combination. If he was breathing in that stuff and not taking deep enough breaths and not coughing it out because it hurt, and then it sat in his lungs for a week or two, it's the perfect storm for developing pneumonia."

A niggling suspicion began to take root in Sam's mind. "His ribs could have been broken for a couple of weeks?"

She nodded. "The color of the bruising on his side looked pretty old. I'd say a couple of weeks would be about right, more or less. Any idea what he did?"

He clenched his jaw, anger slowly burning through him. No, he didn't know _what_ had happened to Dean, but he had a pretty damn good idea when and where it had happened.

**XXXXXXXX**

TJ found Sam's reaction to Heather's question odd. His jaw hardened, his brow furrowed in thought, and he looked kind of pissed. "Sam?" she said. "Do you know what happened to Dean?"

He looked at her with that same look, still a little distracted by his thoughts. "I—um, no. I don't."

Heather was eyeing Sam closely, gauging his reaction. "Cracked ribs can be extremely painful, Sam."

"Yeah. I know," he said absently, like it was a given.

TJ wondered how many times Sam and Dean both had had cracked or bruised ribs in their lives as hunters. She had a feeling it was more than a few.

Heather frowned. "Why would Dean hide it?"

He was staring at a point beyond Heather's shoulder, his jaw still hard. "Because he's a friggin' moron."

TJ shared a look with Heather. Sam was holding something back, and they both knew it. TJ had a feeling it had to do with a hunt, so maybe that's why Sam wasn't saying more, since Heather was there.

He seemed to come back to himself and gave Heather a penetrating look. "Is he gonna be okay?"

Heather cleared her throat again. "He's having trouble breathing. If they can't get his OSAT up—"

"His what?" asked TJ.

"His OSAT—the oxygen saturation in his blood—they'll have to put him on a ventilator. Hopefully the oxygen mask will suffice."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Sam repeated with more intensity.

Heather swallowed. "You need to talk to his doctor about that. He should be out any minute. That's beyond my scope of expertise."

"I want to know what _you_ think, Heather."

"If he doesn't develop sepsis or..." She trailed off, putting her fingers over her lips, trying to hide the trembling of her chin. When she looked at Sam, her eyes were a brighter blue than usual. "Yeah," she said, voice husky with emotion. "He'll be okay. It's Dean."

It sounded like it was the Heather that loved Dean talking, not the paramedic, and TJ didn't take much comfort from her words. She would feel better if the doctor had told them that.

Sam gave a curt nod, the stony expression on his face one of fury, not concern.

TJ wondered if it was Dean he was so mad at, and, if so, then why?

**XXXXXXXX**

Two days later, Heather found TJ in the ICU waiting room by herself. She looked exhausted, brow creased with worry, and she was pale, the freckles on the bridge of her nose and cheeks more prominent than usual.

Heather sat next to her on the edge of a chair. "How is he?"

TJ shook her head. "Not good. He's not responding to the antibiotic they gave him. He's not coughing on his own to clear out the gunk, either, so they're having to suction his lungs periodically. He's mostly been out of his head with the fever, and Sam's the only one who can keep him calm when they do it. If Sam's not there, Dean gets real agitated."

Heather took a deep breath, trying to remain in control, pushing back an irrational surge of hysteria. _He's going to be okay. He's going to be okay, _she chanted to herself. She couldn't fall apart. She was a medical professional, for God's sake. She forced her voice to sound even. "He hasn't developed sepsis?"

TJ shook her head. "No."

"Have they started him on a new antibiotic?"

"Just an hour ago."

Heather nodded. "Good. He'll respond to that one."

TJ frowned. "How can you be so sure?"

She wasn't, but she wasn't going to let TJ know that. "It happens sometimes. They'll give him a new antibiotic, and he'll be fine."

TJ looked like she wasn't totally buying it, but she didn't comment.

"How's Sam?"

"Worn out. He's not taking care of himself. He's hardly even been out of his chair, and I'm worried about him. He had already been burnin' the candle at both ends because of finals, but there's no way he'll leave Dean right now to go home and rest."

"Doesn't he know exhausting himself isn't going to do Dean any good?"

TJ pursed her mouth in disapproval like she'd told Sam the same thing. "He knows, but when it comes to Dean..." She shrugged, as if nothing more needed to be said.

Heather nodded, and they were quiet for a moment. There were things she wanted to say to TJ, but she felt awkward. "Thanks, TJ, you know, for calling me. I know I don't really have a right to be here, but..." She trailed off, suddenly and inexplicably close to tears. Maybe it was because TJ was being so nice to her after she'd blown TJ off and not answered any of her voice mails or texts.

TJ put her arm around her and hugged her. "You have every right to be here."

"How can you say that after—you know, after—knowing how I feel about..." She sat back a bit, looking at the ceiling, and rubbed her palms on her thighs. "God."

"None of that matters right now. I don't think you can turn off your feelings for Dean, no matter if you think we're all ready for the nuthouse."

Heather huffed a small laugh.

"And I think Dean still has feelings for you. After all, he told you he loved you, right?" She looked slightly amused.

Heather rolled her eyes. "He was delirious and oxygen deprived. Probably suffering brain damage."

TJ poked her cheek with her tongue, mouth quirking wryly. "That's nothing new. We knew he was brain damaged when he was our manager at Shorty's."

Heather laughed but felt guilty for their moment of levity when Sam wheeled into the waiting room. He looked utterly drained and worried as hell.

He acknowledged Heather's presence with a short nod and then looked at TJ. "They just suctioned his lungs again."

"I take it that didn't go well," said TJ, dismay on her face.

He shook his head. "He was really pissed off this time. He was out of his head and fought hard. It was all I could do to calm him down. If he keeps that up, they're gonna restrain him. They wanted to this time, but I talked them out of it."

There was a pause as they digested that, and then he said, "If he doesn't start responding to the antibiotic soon, they're gonna have to put him on a vent. He's practically drowning from the inside out."

Fear slithered through Heather, and she suddenly had a strong need to see Dean, to touch him, to be with him. "Could I..." She gave Sam a look that she hoped conveyed her need, hoping he'd understand. "Can you get me in to see him?"

Without hesitating, he said, "Yeah, I think so."

She was grateful that he didn't seem mad at her, that, like TJ, he wasn't hostile to her being there. That was Sam, though. He wasn't the type to hold a grudge, especially at a time like this.

When she walked into Dean's room a few minutes later, her steps faltered at the sight of him. The sick man lying in the bed couldn't be him. Dean was all cocky energy and humor and strength. This guy was gaunt and vulnerable and so very, very sick. She'd never thought his condition could have deteriorated so much from two days ago when they'd first brought him in. He'd been in bad shape then, but he was much worse now.

She forced herself to walk to the side of his bed. She felt suddenly shaky, and she balled her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. _Keep it together. Keep it together._ What was wrong with her? It wasn't like she hadn't seen people critically ill before. She saw it all the time.

He had two IV lines with ports, one in the back of his hand and one on the inside of his other arm, probably for the antibiotic, intravenous nutrition, and a painkiller for his ribs. He was being given a high concentration of oxygen through a face mask covering his nose and mouth. She glanced at the monitors he was hooked up to and didn't like what she saw. His oxygen saturation was still too low, and his heart rate was too high. She prayed that the new antibiotic would kick in soon so they wouldn't have to put him on a vent.

She reached out, touching his hand, and he turned his head toward her. His eyes remained closed, although they were moving under his lids, like he wasn't in a deep sleep. He was burning up and sweating, yet trembling from chills, so she pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, covering his arms and mindful of the IVs. His breathing was labored—too rapid and noisy—and she hated the thought that every breath was a struggle for him.

She wanted to say something to him but was at a loss. '_Hang in there,'_ or '_Fight, Dean,' _seemed cliché, and she could imagine him rolling his eyes if she said them. She wanted to let him know she was there, but would he want that? She didn't think he'd really known what he was saying when he said he loved her, but, God, how she wished it were true.

She hated this indecision, this unease she felt around him. She wanted to rewind to the way things were before vampires and ghosts entered their world, and she was suddenly hit full force with the pain of their separation, of what could have been. She was so afraid for him now, hated seeing him so ill. A rush of emotion slammed into her, a wrecking ball demolishing the wall she'd so carefully constructed around herself.

A torrent of tears ran down her cheeks, and she really cried for the first time since they'd broken up, felt her heart fully break, no longer able to keep the pain at bay.

She bent down and kissed him on the forehead, her lips lingering on his skin, her palm resting lightly on his hot cheek. She still didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed adequate.

Finally, she said simply, "I love you, Dean."

_**TBC**_


	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N: Beta by the super awesome and talented sallyloveslinus and skzb._  
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**Chapter 8**

Four days later (Sam only knew that because he'd been told it was Christmas Eve), he was sitting in his wheelchair next to Dean's bed in the ICU. He was exhausted. He'd been by Dean's side pretty much nonstop, and the hours all ran together. TJ had begged him to go home several times and rest, but he couldn't leave Dean.

They were back in the same ICU Sam had been in after he'd hurt his shoulder last year, so they didn't see any of the same staff that had been in the ICU where TJ had been. The hospital was huge, and TJ had been in a different section.

Dr. Salazar, the chief of staff that had been Sam's doctor, had been by several times to check on him and see how Dean was doing, even though Dr. Vara, the doctor that had seen Dean in the ER, seemed capable. Sam guessed it was good to have the chief of staff on your side. They would normally only let immediate family in to see patients in the ICU, but Dr. Salazar had overridden that and allowed TJ and even Heather in to see Dean, too.

Dr. Salazar had also lifted the restrictions on visiting hours, since Sam's presence seemed to have a calming effect on a sometimes delirious, belligerent Dean. Sam still refused to go home until he knew Dean would be okay and had only let TJ go in with Dean a few times when he'd tried to get a couple of hours of rest.

TJ had split her time between sitting in the ICU waiting room, keeping Sam company, sitting with Dean the few hours Sam took to rest, and going home every so often to walk and feed Rocket. She'd brought back a change of clothes and anything else Sam needed, including food. Sam probably wouldn't have eaten at all if it weren't for her. She'd told him that she had napped, but judging by how quick her trips home were, Sam had his doubts. She was just as exhausted as he was.

Christmas was barely a blip on their radar with everything that had happened. TJ had planned to spend it with Sam and go home the week after New Year's to visit her parents. Christmas had never meant much to Sam, but he knew it was a big deal for her, and he felt bad that she was spending it at the hospital with him and Dean. When he'd apologized, she'd shrugged it off and said they could always make their own Christmas after Dean got home.

Sam had been allowed to lie down for a few hours on a small sofa in the doctors' lounge thanks to Dr. Salazar, but the staff in the ICU wasn't able to be as accommodating of him as when he'd been there for TJ. When she'd been in the other ICU, they had given him an empty patient bed to sleep in. This time, however, it was the pneumonia and flu season, the most severe San Diego had seen in the past three years, and all the beds were taken. As a result, he'd been sitting for hours at a time, either in his wheelchair or a regular chair, hardly stretching his body out at all.

He arched his back over the backrest of his chair and did a pressure lift at the thought. He had a feeling he was going to pay for the abuse he'd heaped on his body in the last few days, not to mention the midnight oil he'd burned getting through finals and the end of the fall semester before everything had happened with Dean. He had sponged off and changed clothes a couple of times since Dean had been in the hospital, but he felt grimy and knew he was going to have to take a break soon. There were certain things he had to take care of because of his SCI, and he'd been neglecting them.

He'd already been fighting the burning, pins-and-needles sensation in his legs for most of the day today, but at least it had been more of a smoldering ache instead of the excruciating, icy-hot fire that it could sometimes be. His legs had been really spastic in the last day or so, and his right leg kept spasming and stiffening up, making it hard to keep his foot on the footplate of his chair. He glanced down at his feet. At least they were where they were supposed to be for the time being.

His eyes felt gritty, and he blinked a few times. He rubbed them with his fingers and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He'd managed to shave once since Dean had been there, but it had been a while, and he had a growth of stubble that was a day or two old.

The pneumonia had been resistant to the first antibiotic they'd given Dean, but he'd finally started to respond to the new antibiotic yesterday morning. Until then, his pulse had been above 120, like he was running a marathon that never ended. The doctor had explained that his heart had to work harder to get oxygen to his brain because his lungs weren't converting oxygen efficiently into his bloodstream. Today, his breathing seemed less wheezy, and his heart rate had slowed down even more.

Dean's nose and mouth were still obscured by an oxygen mask, even though his breathing had improved. Sam was relieved that they hadn't had to put him on a ventilator, although they'd come close. His color was better now, the sickly, grayish pallor of his skin fading. Sam hoped the worst was over.

Maybe he would go home for a while tonight. Today was the first day he would have even considered it. Dean had been a little too close to death for comfort those first days in the hospital, and there was no way Sam would've left him alone.

Dr. Vara had told Sam that if Dean continued to improve, they would be moving him to a regular room soon. He hadn't developed sepsis or any other complications, and now that he was responding to the new antibiotic, his prognosis was good. The doctor was fairly confident there would be no permanent damage to his lungs.

He was wearing a hospital gown with some kind of girly diamond pattern on it that Sam knew he would hate if he'd been aware of it, but he was asleep and oblivious to what was going on around him. They'd been giving him pain medication for his ribs, and that, in addition to the high fever and having to work for every breath he took, had exhausted him. He'd either been asleep or out of his head with fever since he'd been there, although he'd had a few brief moments of lucidity yesterday and today.

Sam had a million emotions warring inside him. He felt guilty for not noticing there was something wrong with Dean, for being so involved with his own life that he'd hardly even seen Dean in the last couple of weeks, yet he was furious with Dean for hiding that he was hurt.

He had a good idea why Dean had done it, though. It had something to do with what had gone on at the Ford house. Sam was sure of it, and he felt guilty for getting Dean involved in that in the first place. Although it had been great to have Rocket back, Dean almost dying of pneumonia was a heavy price to pay.

Sam stared at Dean, listening to the beep of the heart-rate monitor and seeing but not really comprehending all the wires and tubes sticking out of him. He wanted it to be someone else lying in that bed looking so weak and ill, someone who wasn't his big brother. It was like reliving those days after the car wreck that had killed their dad, and it brought back painful memories.

Dean's face was flushed and there was sweat on his forehead and neck, but at least the chills that had plagued him were at bay for the moment. His fever had been below 104 for the first time that day, so Sam guessed he should be relieved. He squeezed Dean's forearm, the skin still too warm.

Dean's face was turned a little away from Sam, and he rolled his head toward Sam in reaction to Sam's touch.

"Dean?"

There was a slight furrowing of his brow.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

Slowly, his eyes opened halfway.

"Hey," said Sam, still gently gripping Dean's arm.

Dean reached up with his free hand to try to pull the oxygen mask off of his face.

Sam had to stretch his arm and reach to grab Dean's hand and stop him. "Dude, leave that on."

As if to defy him, Dean immediately started coughing, a wet, congested sound that came deep from within his chest. He had finally started to cough on his own, which the doctor said was a good thing because it would help to clear his lungs better.

Sam pushed the call button, hating that he couldn't stand up and help Dean himself. The nurses' station was just outside Dean's room, and Amy, Dean's day nurse, was there within seconds. She skirted the bed and stood on the opposite side from Sam.

Dean was already almost in a sitting position because the head of his bed was inclined, and he was propped up with a mountain of pillows. Amy helped him to lean forward, quickly removing the oxygen mask and providing an emesis basin for him to spit the rust-colored mucus in. He wheezed and coughed and finally got it all out, at least for this spell. He was shaking with the effort it had taken and grimacing in pain.

Sam didn't even want to think about how painful such a coughing attack would be with broken ribs and found himself wincing in sympathy.

Once it was over, Amy helped Dean slowly lie back and got him settled again, fluffing the pillows around him. She pulled the thin, beige hospital blanket back up to his waist and tried to replace the oxygen mask on his face, but he stubbornly turned his head away and batted at her hands. "No," he rasped out in a gruff, hoarse voice, his brows arched into a vee of irritation.

Sam was surprised by Dean's show of resistance. He usually went right back to sleep after a coughing attack.

"Ah, getting a little grumpy, are we? You must be feeling better," said Amy good-naturedly, with a slight Asian accent. She had mentioned to Sam that she was Vietnamese.

It was a testament to how crappy Dean felt that he hardly gave the pretty nurse a second glance, especially given his fondness for the skin mag _Busty Asian Beauties_. Amy could have been one of the centerfolds.

He focused his fevered gaze on Sam, eyeing him intensely. "You...okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Trust Dean to be at Death's door and be worried about Sam.

"You look...like ass." Dean spoke slowly, as if every sentence was an effort.

"Thanks," said Sam wryly. "We can't all be as daisy fresh as you. Maybe if I didn't have to worry about my idiot brother who had broken ribs and pneumonia and didn't tell anybody, I wouldn't be so damn tired."

Dean closed his eyes for a second and then rolled his head on the pillow to see Amy better. "Need to talk...to my brother."

She frowned pensively and said, "Hang on a sec," checking Dean's monitors. "Pulse ox is looking much better. Dr. Vara left orders that if you started breathing easier, we could switch you to a nasal cannula." She gave him a stern look. "Until I get a respiratory therapist in here with one, though, you gotta keep this on," she said, putting the mask over his nose and mouth. "Okay, mister?"

He scowled but didn't protest otherwise.

"You seem more alert, Dean. I'm gonna order a meal for you and see how you do. You've been on intravenous nutrition for a few days now, and we need to get something a little more substantial in you."

He seemed to turn a little green at the mention of food.

She chuckled and patted his shoulder with her small hand. "Don't worry. Nothing too heavy. Probably just some broth and maybe some Jell-O."

Dean rolled his eyes and made a comical grimace, and Amy smiled. "Oh, I knew you were gonna be a charmer." She looked at Sam and winked.

Sam grinned, relieved to see a glimpse of Dean's humor.

When Amy left, Sam waited for Dean to speak, but he closed his eyes. Sam thought he'd decided to go back to sleep and sighed. He was surprised when Dean suddenly opened his eyes again.

"You weren't hurt?" Dean asked, words muffled by the mask.

Sam frowned. "When?"

"Car accident."

"Oh. No. You just drove into a ditch. I don't even think it hurt the Impala. There was no damage that I could see there at the scene. Maybe some turf stuck in the bumper."

Dean snorted, which turned into a small cough. "Like you...would know."

"Right," said Sam, ignoring the slight. It was typical Dean. "We had it towed to the apartment."

"Her," Dean corrected.

Sam held in a smile. "Right."

There was a moment of quiet, and Sam leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He stared at them. He'd waited so long for Dean to really be lucid, and now he wasn't sure exactly what to say. The sound of Dean's wheezy breathing filled the room.

Finally, Dean said, "'m sorry."

Sam looked up, curious and a little wary of what Dean meant. He kept his tone even. "For what, exactly?"

Dean frowned and gave him a look. "For putting you...in danger."

"Oh," said Sam, leaning back and resting his hands on his wheels. "You mean like driving when you were about to pass out because you couldn't breathe?" He couldn't keep the sarcasm and reproach from his voice.

Dean swallowed, his features etched with deep remorse. "Yeah."

Sam felt a twinge of guilt for putting that look on Dean's face, but he wasn't going to let Dean off the hook. There were some things he had to get to the bottom of, and he was losing patience. He was tired, his legs were hurting, and he was pissed at Dean for keeping things from him. "You wanna tell me what happened?"

"You were there."

Sam's grip on the tires tightened, and he shifted his shoulders in agitation. "I'm talking about at the Fords', Dean. That's where you hurt your ribs, isn't it?" He said it more like an accusation than a question.

Dean turned his head away lethargically.

"Dean, I'm not stupid. I know something went down there, and don't tell me that gunshot was a door slamming or that Dr. Ford's association with Gordon Walker was harmless. And don't make up some lame story about how you hurt your ribs. I want to know what happened at that house, and I want to know now. If you don't tell me, I'll go there myself and find out."

That got Dean's attention. "Just let it go, Sammy," he growled with urgency, his voice louder. The exertion caused him to cough and then wince in pain.

"Easy. Easy, Dean." Sam felt bad for upsetting him, the ire he'd felt seconds ago suddenly draining away.

"You stay...away from there...Sam." His breathing had grown harsher, and his heart rate sped up.

Sam raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Okay, okay. Take it easy."

Dean's eyes burned into him, and he leaned forward a little. "You stay...away. Nothing there."

Sam reached up and put a light hand on Dean's chest, gently pushing him back. "Okay, okay. Just take it easy."

"You swear, Sam. Swear...you won't go."

"I swear." Sam would say almost anything at this point to get Dean to calm down, although he was more convinced than ever that something big had happened at the Ford house.

Dean closed his eyes, looking exhausted.

Sam patted him on the shoulder. "Just get some rest."

"You, too," rasped Dean without opening his eyes.

"Yeah," said Sam quietly. But he wouldn't. Not really. Not until he knew what Dean was hiding.

**XXXXXXXX**

The jackhammer in Dean's head had finally let up a little, but he wasn't ready to open his eyes. He was so damn tired, and he still felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. Then there was the lovely fact that his body burned like a damn inferno and felt like it would freeze to death at the same time. At least the chills had eased for a bit.

He could hear a beeping noise by his bed and noises in the distance, the sound of busy people at work. Nurses. He heard nurses at work. Oh, yeah. He was in the ICU. Pneumonia. Just peachy.

He had the vague memory of a conversation with Sam about what happened at the Ford house, and he didn't want to face him. He didn't want to see the suspicion in Sam's eyes and have to make up shit to try to convince him that nothing had happened there. He just wanted his side and his chest to stop hurting, and he tried to make himself fall back asleep.

Of course, his body had other ideas. Instead of falling back to sleep, it decided it was time to hack up a lung again, and he was wracked with coughs. He suddenly felt a hand on his back, helping him lean forward.

He coughed up the gross crud that his lungs seemed to have an endless supply of and spit it into the blue, kidney-shaped, plastic basin the nurse held for him. He didn't know which was worse, coughing it up on his own, which hurt like hell, or having it suctioned out. He kept having nightmares that the tubing they stuck up his nose for suctioning was some kind of freaky monster with tentacles that was trying to eat his brain.

After coughing up enough gunk to fill a football stadium, the attack was finally over. His chest was on fire, and his side felt like some hooker was grinding the end of her spiked high heel into it. He leaned against the hand on his back and felt it ease him back against the pillows. He was spent and tried to go back to sleep, but it wasn't happening. He was too damn uncomfortable.

They'd had him pretty much in a sitting position since he'd been there, and he was tired of it. He wanted to turn onto his side and curl in on himself, but he figured he'd probably drown in his own lung crap if he did. He'd never been so sick in his entire life, and he just wanted it to end.

He moved his legs restlessly and opened his eyes to a slit. He could see the nurse vaguely in his peripheral vision and wondered why she wasn't wearing the usual scrubs. Instead, she was wearing jeans and a peasant-style white top that reminded him of Heather. She even smelled like Heather, like berries and that fancy soap made out of granola or oatmeal or whatever that Heather liked so much.

Maybe he was delirious and hallucinating again. Was it possible to hallucinate smells?

He closed his eyes, wishing Heather was there and that he wasn't sick and that she didn't think he was psycho.

He told himself he had to be getting better, since they'd taken the oxygen mask off his face and given him a plastic nose tube instead. That had to be a good sign, right? As far as he knew, though, he was still in the ICU. Why hadn't they moved him? How long had it been since his conversation with Sam? Had Sam gone home?

He should open his eyes. He should make sure Sam was okay. Sam wasn't there reassuring him like he'd been for almost every one of Dean's coughing attacks. Had he actually listened to Dean for once and gone home to rest? That would be a first.

Of course, the pathetic, sick, annoying, childish part of Dean didn't want to be alone and, irrationally, he wondered how Sam could've really left him. Couldn't Sam at least have had TJ stay with him?

As if answering his question, he felt smooth fingers brush across his forehead and then lightly through his hair. "Dean? How are you feeling? That was a pretty bad attack. Are you okay?"

Huh. That was weird. This nurse even sounded like Heather. His pulse quickened (damn that stupid monitor for announcing it to the friggin' world). Slowly, he opened his eyes to see stunning, impossibly-blue eyes looking down at him.

"Hey," said Heather, her mouth quirked in that crooked way that he liked. Maybe even loved.

Something niggled in the back of his mind, a memory of him actually saying that to her, a memory of her in her paramedic uniform taking care of him. God. Had he told her he loved her?

Nah. There was no way he'd say that, even if he'd been out of his head. Maybe he'd hallucinated that. What were the odds that it had been _her_ there that day? There had to be a million paramedics in San Diego. The fates wouldn't do that to him, would they?

Yeah. They probably would.

She offered him a cup of water with one of those bendy straws in it. He didn't make a move to take it. The thought of even water made him nauseous, and he was afraid his hand would shake from weakness. He didn't want her to see that.

"Just take a sip," she said in that soft voice of hers.

He loved the sound of it. _Stop_. He didn't _love_ the sound of it. That was stupid. But her voice did sound nice.

"It'll make your throat feel better."

Again with the voice. He wished she'd stop. It made him hurt in a way that wasn't physical. He had missed that voice.

Just to get her to shut up, he grabbed the cup. And, yeah, his hand shook. She wrapped her hand around his to steady it, and the coolness of her touch was heaven against his hot, feverish skin.

He took a few sips of the water, and she was right. It did soothe his parched throat. In fact, he realized he was really friggin' thirsty, like Texas-during-a-drought dry, and he got greedy, taking larger swallows of the water.

"Okay, Dean. You should probably be careful and not drink too much. Sam said you had an upset stomach earlier after they brought you dinner."

He reluctantly spit the straw out of his mouth and let go of the cup, and she set it on the nearby overbed table.

He'd been puking for a couple of days before he'd passed out and driven into the ditch. The puking had done wonders for his cracked ribs. He grimaced at the thought of the chicken broth and Jell-O they'd brought him for dinner. Sam had badgered him into eating most of it, and then he'd promptly thrown it up and gone back to sleep. "Where's Sam?"

"TJ finally talked him into going home to rest. He left shortly after you went back to sleep. He looked beyond exhausted."

"Idiot."

"Funny. He said pretty much the same thing about you." There was a gleam of humor in her eyes.

He frowned and said hoarsely, "What time is it?"

"Midnight." She turned and pulled a plastic chair closer to the bed and sat down. Her silky red hair was down around her shoulders, and she looked beautiful.

He felt that painful feeling again, that feeling that had nothing to do with the pneumonia or the cracked ribs and everything to do with how much he missed her. He didn't want her to see him like this. He remembered the coughing spell he'd just had and was embarrassed that she'd been the one holding the basin for him.

She gave him a small, tentative smile. "Merry Christmas. It's been Christmas Day for a whole two minutes."

He could care less that it was Christmas, but he felt a stupid guilt that she was there with him. "You should be with your family."

She shrugged and looked down at her fingernails, her expression impassive. "They're in Aspen. Not really my scene."

He knew her family was a sore subject, and there was pain hidden behind her indifference.

"What the hell are you doing here, Heather?" It came out harsher than he'd intended, but, really, why was she there?

Her brow creased in a flash of hurt, and she glanced away to hide it. When she looked back at him, her expression was devoid of emotion. "Sam wouldn't leave, and TJ was worried about him. I volunteered to stay so they could both go home and get some rest."

He could feel his chest beginning to tighten, which meant another coughing spell was in the works. He didn't want Heather to be there for another one. "I don't need...a babysitter."

"Maybe not, but you almost died of pneumonia, Dean. You have a little brother that worships the ground you walk on and was worried sick about you. He didn't want you to wake up alone. There was no way he would leave you unless I promised to stay."

Dean felt a deep pang of regret when she said that. He wondered how Sam would feel if he knew what he'd done, that he had ruined a damn good chance at a cure for Sam's SCI. How would Sam feel about his big brother then? The thought scared the shit out of him, and he tried to push it away. "Why didn't TJ stay?"

"She's just as exhausted as Sam. I came off a twenty-four-hour shift and slept all day today, so I told them I didn't mind staying with you tonight."

There was an awkward silence after that. Dean closed his eyes, wishing his traitorous body would just slip back into oblivion.

"Dean?"

He feigned sleep.

There was another silence, and then she said, "I know you're not asleep."

"How can I be..." He paused, trying to fill his lungs with enough air to talk. "...when you keep talking?"

"Take a breath through your nose. Let the oxygen help you."

"You're not...my doctor."

"No, but I have common sense. I can tell you're breathing through your mouth a lot. Use your nose, where the supplemental oxygen is."

He breathed in through his nose, and it did help a little. It annoyed him that she was telling him how to breathe, though. As if he couldn't figure it out. It was just that the plastic nose thing made him want to breathe out of his mouth for some reason. "Why are you here?" he repeated.

"I told you. Sam and TJ—"

"You think we're all nuts. You want nothing to do with us." He rubbed his chest, trying to alleviate the tightness there. It was hurting, and so was his side, but he wasn't about to admit that to her. "You wouldn't even return messages from TJ."

"That was..." She sighed, then stared down at her hands and frowned. "I should have answered her. I know that."

"She's not crazy, and neither is Sam." He left himself out, but the implication was there that he wasn't either.

She still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Just leave," he rasped.

She looked at him then with a determined, almost defiant expression. "I'm not leaving. I promised Sam."

"I'll complain. They'll make..." He felt a painful constricting in his chest and a scratch in his throat but fought it. "...you leave."

She tilted her head a fraction in challenge, and one side of her mouth quirked. "If they make me leave, I'll have to call Sam and tell him. Tonight's the first night of sleep he's gotten in at least four days. You know what will happen if I call him. He'll be right back up here, and so will TJ."

She was right, and it pissed Dean off. He rolled his head on the pillow away from her, utterly miserable. He felt like shit, the pain in his chest and side were getting worse by the minute, and now he was stuck with his friggin' ex-girlfriend who thought he was a lunatic. He hated that she was seeing him so weak like this and didn't even want to think about all the tubes and embarrassing crap he was hooked up to that she could see.

He suddenly felt her cool fingers wrap around his hand. "Can we not—look, just let me stay, Dean. I want to be here."

He turned his head toward her again and watched her face. She seemed sincere. He tried to ignore the contact of her hand on his, tried to ignore how good it felt and how soothing it was.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction and she stared at him like she was trying to see inside him. "What happened to you, Dean? How did you fracture your ribs?"

He waited a moment before answering. It made him angry, the unfairness of it all, that he had to lie to be believed. He was tempted to tell her the truth just to freak her out, but that would be a bad idea on many levels. "Fell," he finally answered.

"How?"

"Tripped in the kitchen." He was making it up on the fly and hoped he hadn't already answered the question when he was out of his head. He had no idea what he might have said.

"What did you trip on?"

He drew in a shallow breath, feeling that cough that had been threatening getting closer. "One of my boots. Sam's always complaining...about that. Guess now I know why."

"Did you fall on the floor?"

He shook his head a little. "Hit my side..." He couldn't keep a small cough from escaping, but it wasn't the mammoth one he knew was on the way. "...on the counter.

She kept looking at him, her light-colored eyes piercing. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

He started coughing, and for once he was glad, even though it was embarrassing and hurt like a bitch. At least it distracted her from giving him the third degree. He felt like he was being grilled by the district attorney.

She again helped him sit up, this time putting her arm around his shoulders for support as his body violently expelled the thick, wet, nasty crud in his lungs. This attack hadn't been as long as the last, but his side and chest hurt worse. His pain meds must be wearing off or something. He couldn't remember hurting this bad since he'd become aware of what had happened.

She helped him lie back down, and he fought the urge to wince and hold his side. He felt her brush her fingers through his hair again and wondered why she was doing it. He told himself not to read anything into it. She'd probably do the same for anyone else who was in the shape he was in.

"You're hurting pretty badly, aren't you?" Her tone said she knew and wasn't really asking.

"I'm fine."

She rolled her eyes. "Now I see why Sam was afraid to leave you alone."

He scowled. "What?"

She made a show of pressing the call button on his bed, her lips pressed together in a look of reproof. "You'd rather do the stubborn Winchester thing and suffer than ask for help."

He didn't answer, just gave her a glower that had put the fear of hell in demons; but all it did to her was cause the corners of her mouth to curve in amusement. It made him feel childish.

In less than a minute, a nurse Dean didn't recognize entered his room. "What can I get you?" she asked, looking at him with a smile. She was blond, kind of chubby, and entirely too perky for the time of night it was.

"He's in pain," said Heather, before Dean could answer.

He found it irritating. Like he couldn't speak for himself.

"Is he due for another dose of morphine?" Heather asked, sounding all professional and detached.

"Let me check," said the nurse. "I'll be right back."

While the nurse was gone, Heather peered at the slime he'd spit up in the basin she'd set on the overbed table. "It's kind of greenish yellow; not as dark and brown as it was. That's a good sign."

He grimaced. "That's gross." He hated how gravelly his voice sounded.

She shrugged, unfazed. "It was dark-brown, sort of rust colored when we brought you in. It's good that it's getting lighter and isn't so thick. It's breaking up."

Oh, shit. She _had_ been one of the paramedics that had treated him. That was fucking great. Was he going to be left with even a shred of dignity?

"You told me you loved me."

Apparently not.

"Do you remember?" Her face was unreadable, but she held his gaze.

He was saved from having to answer when the nurse came back in. "I'm really sorry," she said. "I'm filling in for Rhonda tonight, and I read your protocol wrong. I should have done a vital-sign check and given you another dose of pain med an hour ago." She looked at Heather apologetically. "I'm sorry. I need to check some things. You'll have to step out of the room."

Heather nodded, turned to go, but then hesitated. She gave Dean's hand a squeeze, and he felt an annoying, uncomfortable knot in his belly, a feeling of longing for something that he knew he would never have. He figured she was only there because she felt sorry for him.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she promised.

"Don't bother."

She stiffened, pursing her lips in stubborn resolve. "I'll be back."

"Whatever," he said with surly disinterest. He'd rather die than let her know he was secretly glad she was going to stay.

**XXXXXXXX**

When Heather came back into Dean's room, she was disappointed to see that he was asleep. She had a lot of things she wanted to talk to him about, but she knew he wasn't faking it this time. His breathing was even, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, although he still sounded congested and kind of wheezy. It was an improvement from when she'd seen him the other day, though, and she was relieved beyond words that he was doing better.

She sat in the plastic chair she'd pulled up near his bed earlier and pulled out her Kindle from her purse, glad she'd thought to bring it. When she tried to read, however, she couldn't concentrate. She kept glancing at Dean.

The hard lines of his face had softened around his mouth, but his brow was still slightly creased, even in sleep. His color, while improved, was still a little pale and grayish, despite the flush of the fever, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead and neck. She wanted to touch him, to smooth her fingers over his forehead and make those creases go away.

Instead, she went and got a cool, damp cloth from the bathroom and started bathing his face, wiping away the sweat. He didn't stir. Exhaustion combined with the morphine had sent him back to dreamland. His long, slightly curling lashes brushed his cheeks, and she felt her stomach do a little flip.

She thought about what he'd told her, about falling in the kitchen and hurting his ribs. Funny, but the entirely plausible story somehow didn't ring true to her.

What was wrong with her? He'd done what she'd asked of him that day they'd broken up, hadn't he? He'd told her something she could believe, yet she didn't believe him. It was something in the way he'd told it, a sort of cynical insolence in his eyes that contradicted the perfectly reasonable explanation.

She didn't think him tripping and falling would be a hard enough blow to fracture his ribs. Maybe if he was an eighty-year-old man, but he was _far_ from that. He was too young and strong to break his ribs so easily.

She'd been really afraid and worried for him, especially when TJ had called her almost frantic that he hadn't responded to the first antibiotic they'd given him. Heather had kept her cool, calmly explaining that it sometimes happened, that they'd probably do more tests and find an antibiotic that would work. Inside, though, she'd felt almost as frantic as TJ. She'd been more composed by the time she'd found TJ in the waiting room, but TJ's phone call had rattled her.

She was grateful to TJ for keeping her updated on his condition, for not blowing her off like she had done to them. Of course, it made her feel like the worst friend in the world for ignoring the many texts and voice mails TJ had left her in the last few weeks. TJ hadn't even mentioned it, though. She had treated Heather as if nothing had happened, as if she understood and wasn't judging.

She should have a girl talk with TJ, explain things to her and apologize. She still found it all hard to believe, but the more she thought about things, the more it felt like she was the one who'd been in the wrong. She wanted to talk to Dean, to sit down with him and have a rational conversation. She wanted him to explain things again about the... God. She still couldn't even say it to herself.

_Monsters._ _Monsters_, _Heather_. _Just spit it out. Dean hunts monsters. And ghosts. And demons. And who knows what else? _

She wanted to hear about it all when she wasn't in complete and utter shock, when she was ready to sit down with an open mind and listen.

The more time she spent away from him, the more she missed him. She'd begun to think she'd made a huge mistake letting him walk out of her life. It made it easier to believe him, made it easier to tell herself that maybe he'd been right. Maybe she should take a leap of faith and trust him. Maybe there were things in the world that weren't rational, that couldn't be explained.

The logical side of her, however, said that seeing Dean so ill was clouding her judgment. Seeing him hurting that day in the Impala and out of his head, _not being able to breathe_, _for God's sake_, had done a number on her, was making her look for a loophole, for a reason to believe him because she wanted to so badly.

She slowly and gently pressed the cool compress over his forehead, cheeks, and neck—careful not to dislodge the nasal cannula—until the cloth got warm. She then set it on the overbed table. The lines in his forehead were gone now, and she took satisfaction in the fact that she seemed to have soothed him.

He looked young, almost boyish, his guard completely down. She was drawn to him and couldn't resist touching him. She eased the tips of her fingers over his cheekbones and then over his lips, feeling a heat in her body that matched the fever of his. She touched her lips to his and lingered there for too long, savoring the feel of it. She wished there was more to it, that he was awake and kissing her back, that things hadn't gone south between them, that he loved her as much as she loved him.

She pulled away slowly, half expecting his eyes to be open and a cocky smirk to be on his face, but he was still out like a light. She wanted him to be able to trust her, to be able to open up to her, to be able to tell her what had really happened and how he'd hurt his ribs. She wanted to know why he hadn't told anyone he was hurt, why he hadn't gone to a doctor, why he'd let things go so far and gotten so ill.

But how could she expect him to ever open up to her again? The one time he had, she'd called him crazy.

One thing was for sure. She was driving herself crazy with this inner dialogue she kept having. She was tired of going around in circles. So, if the practical part of her brain needed proof that Dean had told her the truth about being a ghost hunter, she was going to find it.

It was time she did a little hunting of her own.

_**TBC**_


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N: Almost done, kids. Only one more chapter to go after this one. Reviews are MUCH appreciated. I'm writing this for you guys, so let me know how I'm doing. :)_**

**_Thanks to my betas skzb and sallyloveslinus, who always do such a great job!_**

**Chapter 9**

Sam's exhaustion went bone deep. By the time he'd gotten in the shower, his last reserves of energy were sapped. He sat in his shower chair, which had a vinyl padded seat on one side with a hole in the middle, like a toilet seat, and a padded backrest. The side that fit over the edge of the rectangular, fiberglass tub had a small, padded bench to make it easier to transfer. It was positioned a little bit toward the back of the tub—enough room for Sam's long legs, but still close enough that he could reach the temperature control lever and hand-held shower nozzle.

He let the hot water sluice over him, almost too tired to lift the nozzle over his head. He should shave, but he was too tired to do that. It could wait until morning.

TJ and Heather had talked him into coming home for the night an hour or so after Dean had tried to eat dinner and promptly thrown it back up. He'd been reluctant to leave Dean after that, but Dean had been sound asleep when TJ had shown up with Heather. Sam hadn't wanted Heather to spend Christmas Eve watching over Dean, but she'd insisted that she didn't have plans, that her family wasn't in town, that she wanted to. She and TJ had double-teamed him, finally convincing him to leave.

It was a good thing, because his body had really begun to rebel. One of the things his yoga instructor had taught him was how to listen to the paralyzed part of his body, and, right now, it was telling him it was extremely pissed. The pain in his legs had ratcheted up a notch, and he hoped it wouldn't keep him from sleeping. He was hoping the shower and being able to finally stretch his long body all the way out on a bed would help.

He went through the motions of washing and rinsing himself and was about to turn the water off when, suddenly, the entire lower half of his body started to spasm. His lower back muscles contracted, causing him to be thrown back against the backrest of the shower chair, and his legs straightened completely out, his feet hitting the end of the tub.

"Gah," he grunted. His breathing quickened, and he tried not to panic. He reflexively dropped the shower head and grabbed one of the stainless-steel grab bars embedded in the tub stall with one hand and the bench part of his shower chair with the other, trying not to slide out of it.

The first thing that went through his head was that, if he didn't get his legs out of there soon, he was going to get a pressure sore on his feet because they were pressed awkwardly against the end of the tub. The second thing was that there was no way he'd be able to transfer into his wheelchair like this. The third thing was that this was the worst attack of spasticity he could ever remember, and it really fucking sucked.

TJ was probably already asleep, and he hated to call for help and wake her, but he didn't have a choice. "TJ!" he yelled, gritting his teeth as his body kept fighting him. "TJ!"

A few seconds later, the door to the bathroom banged open. Her voice was thick with sleep. "Sam? What's wrong?"

He was still clenching his teeth, fear and aggravation coursing through him, his grip on the bar and shower bench a white-knuckled vise. "I can't—it's spasms. I need help getting into my chair."

She pulled back the shower curtain, and her eyes widened when she saw the state he was in. She quickly recovered and was all business, swiftly turning off the water and replacing the shower head to its holder. "All right. How do we do this?"

He grimaced, leaning his head back. "Transfer board. Bottom of my closet."

She was gone and back with the board in less than a minute. She'd helped him many times with the transfer board when he'd hurt his shoulder. She knew where to put it and placed it accordingly, making a small bridge from the bench part of the shower chair to the seat of his wheelchair, which was parked next to the tub. She grabbed the towel that was lying on the seat of his wheelchair and dried him off, then wrapped it around him as best she could, tucking it up under his buttocks and securing it around his waist so his lower half was covered. "All right, baby," she said, "can you hold onto my neck?"

He was still panting with the effort of trying to keep his body from falling. "TJ, I can't—I can't help much."

She shook her head, as if that didn't matter. "It's all right. Just do it." She was bending over him and had grabbed hold of him under his arms.

He cautiously wrapped his arms, one at a time, around her neck, afraid the weight of his body would hurt her. "Watch your back and neck," he ground out. "Don't strain them."

"Don't worry." Her voice was a soothing vibration near his ear. "I ate my Wheaties this mornin'."

A smile tugged at his lips, despite his predicament. He nodded reluctantly, and on the count of three, she got him lifted to where his buttocks were on the bench of the shower chair. One more slide and lift, and he was on the transfer board, but it was slow-going because his back was so stiff and arched. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"I'm fine, baby," she drawled. "Stop...worrying," she grunted as she heaved and pulled and finally got him to slide along the board into his chair. His long legs were still ramrod straight and resting on the side of the tub, and she picked them up and tried to get his knees to bend so he could sit safely in his chair, but they kept straightening as soon as she let go.

She looked up at him, still all business. "Can you push your wheels?"

He wasn't sure if he could without losing his balance since his back was so arched, but he had to try. "Yeah."

She nodded. "All right, then. You push your wheels, and I'll carry your legs. Okay?"

He was sure he was going to fall out of his chair, since it seemed his buttocks were hardly on the seat. He felt like a human rickshaw, the way TJ was carrying his legs. Somehow they managed to get him the few feet from the bathroom to his bed and went through the ordeal of transferring him onto it. His back was still stiff and arched so much that there was no way he could lie in any position but on his side. He was facing away from TJ, who was standing next to the bed.

Rocket, who had been asleep on his doggy pallet until all the commotion, jumped onto the bed and sniffed and then licked Sam's cheek. Sam forced his fist to uncurl and scratched Rocket between his ears.

Rocket gave a sigh of ecstasy. When Sam let his hand drop, Rocket sniffed the bed, turned a few circles, and then lay down on TJ's side of it.

"That's only temporary, Bubba," TJ warned, but he just looked at her, forehead wrinkled and light-blue eyes looking woeful.

She massaged Sam's back and his legs for a few minutes, but they remained stiff and uncooperative. "Sam," she said gently, "do you have any baclofen left from before?"

He didn't want to take it, but at this point he needed the relief. "Medicine cabinet."

She was back with a cup of water and the medication in a flash, and he took it. He shut his eyes, trying to ride the wave of pain in his legs like his yoga instructor had shown him instead of fighting it. He was tired, though, and it was hard to concentrate. He hated that TJ was seeing him like this, with his body contorted and so out of his control. At least it hadn't happened at the hospital for everyone else to see.

He didn't realize how tense the rest of his body was, even the parts that weren't spasming, until he felt TJ's warm, firm hands kneading the muscles in his shoulders and neck. He realized he was clutching a handful of the sheet in his hand, and he forced himself to let go.

"I'll be right back, honey," she spoke softly near his ear, and he was reminded of her mother, of the genteel way Ferna Sue had calmed TJ last spring when TJ had been in the hospital. TJ usually didn't call him names like "honey" or "baby," but he liked it now. It was something he'd never experienced in his life, the soft, nurturing way only a woman could soothe away hurt. Dean had soothed Sam the best he could in his own gruff way when Sam had gotten hurt as a kid, but TJ was filling a void he'd never known existed in his life until now.

He tried again to concentrate and work through the pain and get his upper body to relax. He didn't realize TJ had come back until he could smell the sort of oily, buttery scent of Eucerin, the thick lotion that he used on his skin to keep it from drying out and breaking down. He sensed she was behind him, putting it on his legs, and he imagined her hands sliding over his skin and wished he could feel it instead of the gnawing, persistent pain. He was supposed to use the lotion every day, but he hadn't done it since Dean had been in the hospital. "How bad is it?" he said without opening his eyes.

"Pretty dry," she drawled.

He let out a long exhale. "See anything?"

"Some redness on your right heel, but I think we're catching it in time. You probably shouldn't wear shoes until it goes away. Your feet are pretty swollen, too." She said the last bit with a tinge of admonishment.

He knew she'd been worried about him. He hadn't checked for pressure sores in days, and he'd been in his chair too many hours at a time. He wasn't surprised that he'd developed a rub, especially since his legs had been more spastic in the last few days, and was glad it sounded minor. He didn't like that he could only wear socks until it went away, but it was worth it if it helped avoid a sore.

He felt the edge of the towel that she'd wrapped around him move at his waist, and he knew she had lifted it away, exposing him. "Are you squeezing my ass?"

"Maybe. That isn't the only thing I'm about to squeeze," she teased.

He opened his eyes to see her bending over him. She was wearing red, flannel pajamas with Christmas trees on them, and her hair was disheveled. One side of his mouth quirked with wry amusement. "I checked that area in the shower, you know."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, furrowing her brow in mock sternness. "We're talkin' about the family jewels, here, Sam. One can't be too careful."

He grinned. He didn't find it embarrassing like he would have a few months ago. TJ was like an extension of himself, and she helped him with things that would have mortified him before. He almost preferred her to do it, and he mused at how completely comfortable he'd become with her.

When she was done lotioning the lower half of his body, she moved to his upper back and began massaging the lotion in up there, too. "Relax, baby," she coaxed, and kissed the nape of his neck before gliding the lotion over the skin of his arm and chest.

It felt good, and he could feel some of the tension in his shoulders finally start to ease. It was too soon for the baclofen to kick in, but he thought it seemed like his back was beginning to uncoil, too.

When she was done with the lotion, she helped him put on a pair of boxers and then came around to her side of the bed. "Rocket, off."

Rocket didn't stir, pretending to be asleep.

"Rocket, bed," she commanded, pointing to his doggy bed on the floor.

Rocket didn't budge, but one eye cocked open surreptitiously.

She rolled her eyes, and Sam chuckled.

With an exasperated sigh, she picked Rocket up, carrying him to his bed. "Rocket, you're getting heavy. You need to lay off the baloney and cheese sandwiches." After she laid him down on his bed, Sam heard her say in a lowered voice, "Don't you give me that look. I'm too tired, and you're _not_ sleeping with us."

Once Rocket was settled, she crawled into bed with Sam, pulled the covers up over both of them, and faced him, rubbing circles on the back of his hand. He realized he was fisting the sheet again, and he forced himself let go and take a deep breath.

She held his gaze but didn't say anything.

"Sorry," he said, feeling a little sheepish.

"For what?"

"I know you tried to get me to rest. I shouldn't have pushed myself so hard. I should have listened to you."

Her eyes lowered to watch her finger trace his hand, and he turned it over so she could trace his palm. She looked up into his eyes again. "You were worried about Dean." She said it like nothing more needed to be explained.

He appreciated that she understood and didn't lecture him. "I'm sorry that you had to lift me. You could have hurt your back."

The corners of her mouth curved upward. "I think I finally know why God made me so _statuesque." _She was being self-deprecating, referring to her size.

He was wary, reminded of that painful time when she used to think of herself as unattractive and an Amazon. "Why do you say that?"

Her smile deepened into something that was sweet and a bit shy. "He knew you might want my help someday. He Sam-sized me."

He was relieved, and a sudden, pleasant warmth rippled out from his heart. "I think you're right," he agreed, and pulled her closer, loosely draping his arm over her waist.

She ran her hand gently over his jaw, feeling the stubble there, before curling her fingers comfortably under her chin. "Your back doesn't seem as stiff."

"Mm."

"You want to turn over onto your belly?" she asked with a yawn.

"Maybe in a minute." He searched her face and ran a finger along the freckles dusting her cheekbones. "I like the view right now."

She looked down for a second and blushed, and he kissed the tip of her nose. He loved that something so simple could still make her blush, especially considering how very intimate things had gotten between them. "I love you," he said softly.

Her gaze rose to meet his, full of emotion.

"Thanks for taking care of me."

She rolled her eyes. "Would you stop? I'm gettin' kind of misty here."

He grinned and brushed his fingers through her rich, dark hair, straightening a few tangles, before resting his hand on her hip.

They were quiet for a few minutes, and then she reached over and began to rub his back with a feather-light touch. "Dean was looking a lot better when we left earlier. His breathing seemed less labored."

He felt his stomach twist into a knot, the thought of Dean filling him with worry and unease. "Yeah."

She studied him. "Why are you so mad at him, Sam?"

"What? I'm not mad at him."

"Then why does your jaw turn to concrete every time you talk about him? Did you ask him how he hurt his ribs?"

He hesitated for a second, not wanting to drag her into it.

"You're doing it right now."

He frowned. "Doing what?"

"Clenching your jaw."

She was right, and he stopped, opening his mouth and working it a little to release the tension.

"I want to know what's goin' on, Sam. You've been acting weird ever since Heather told you Dean's ribs were cracked."

He was silent, not wanting to get into it.

"Has he told you anything?" she asked.

He drew in a deep breath. "He mumbled something when he was half out of his head about falling in the kitchen."

"And you don't believe him?"

His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed. He was going to have to come clean with her, and he really didn't want to do it right now when he was so tired. With resignation, he said, "I think he hurt himself the day we got Rocket back from the Fords."

Her brow creased. "How?"

"It's a long story."

"I thought you said you just went there to check up on Rocket. Then the whole thing happened with Mrs. Ford's ventilator, and they let you have him back."

"Uh, yeah. That's true. I just kind of left out some stuff."

The crease in her brow deepened. "Like what, Sam?"

Knowing he was probably about to be in the doghouse, he launched into the story of everything that had happened at the Ford house. He told her about the stakeout and what Bobby had told them about Wayne Tilden, aka Gordon Walker. He told her how Dean had snuck into the house to check things out and make sure Rocket was okay and how Dean had been gone too long. He told her how he had gotten worried and gone up to the Ford house, how he'd met Felicia Ford.

"And?" she prompted, when he paused in the story.

"And after Marcus went to get Rocket, Felicia and I heard the sound of a gunshot. I'm positive that's what the sound was, and it sounded like it came from below us, in the wine cellar. Even weirder, both Dean and Dr. Ford brushed it off as someone slamming a door somewhere."

"But why would Dean lie about it? I mean, if there was really a hunt there, why wouldn't he just tell you about it?"

"I don't know, but I think something definitely happened. He somehow got hurt there. I'm sure of it."

"So, what are you gonna do about it?"

He could feel the baclofen kicking in and making him more tired than he already was. The spasms had stopped completely. "I want to turn over," he said, not answering her question right away.

She cocked her head and gave him a narrow look, like she knew he was stalling. Nevertheless, she helped him turn over onto his stomach, putting a pillow under his feet to elevate them and try to get the swelling to go down. Once he was settled, she lay back down and pulled the covers up again, but the intimacy they had shared before was gone. She was on her back, not touching him, lips in a tight line and staring at the ceiling. She repeated her question from earlier. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

Sam was getting sleepier by the minute. "I don't know. I want to go back there and investigate, but I promised Dean I wouldn't."

She huffed.

"Am I in trouble?" He said it into his pillow, and his voice was slightly muffled.

"Yes," she retorted abruptly.

He turned his head to where he could talk, feeling a slight sinking sensation in his gut, hating that he was in hot water with her. "I didn't tell you about the stakeout because I didn't want you to worry. It was supposed to be routine. I just wanted peace of mind. I just wanted to make sure Rocket was in a good home."

She turned to him then, large brown eyes dark and intense. "And what if something had happened to you there, Sam? I thought you were in class and Dean was at work. How worried do you think I would have been if you two never came home and I never saw you again and never knew what had happened to you? What if they'd chopped you and Dean into a million pieces and stuffed you in the freezer?"

He grimaced. "I would say, in that case, you shouldn't accept a dinner invitation from them."

"Sam!"

He held in a smile and reached over to her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her over to him.

She made her body stiff, not cooperating. "Let go. I'm mad at you."

He trailed his finger over her collarbone, knowing she usually loved the feel of it. "But you won't be for long."

She grabbed his wrist and moved his arm away from her, dropping it unceremoniously on the mattress. "I'm serious, Sam."

"I'm sorry, TJ."

"No, you're not. You don't think it's a big deal."

"I do. I just—I don't want you to be angry with me." He pulled her even closer and rested his arm across her middle possessively.

She let his arm stay there, but she was still staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at him. She was really upset with him. He could see the gears turning in her head and knew that the more she thought about it, the madder she got.

He was truly contrite and tried to explain. "I really am sorry, TJ. It's just that—I don't know. I guess it was always ingrained in our heads by our dad never to talk about things like that. I mean, technically, it wasn't a hunt, but the stakeout—it's something we used to do all the time when we were hunting. We did what we did, and we shut up about it. Besides, I honestly didn't think anything would come of it. I thought we'd go there, see that everything was as it was supposed to be, and leave."

She had no reaction.

He exhaled, feeling a pang of guilt. "I shouldn't have let Dean go in there alone. When Bobby called and told us that Tilden was really a hunter and had lied about his identity, we should have regrouped. Dean went into the house on impulse to check things out, and we didn't think it through."

"But why didn't you tell me the whole story after you got Rocket back?"

"I was going to, but I guess I was kind of afraid."

"Of what?"

"That you'd be ticked at me."

She huffed again, implying he'd gotten that right.

"And then we got busy with finals and the end of the semester. I thought it was all over anyway, that, like Dean said, I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, that I should just be glad to have Rocket back and leave it at that."

She didn't say anything, and he cupped her chin in his fingers and turned her head toward him. "I'm sorry," he repeated, and he meant it.

She locked eyes with him for a long moment. "Remember how you made me promise not to hold things back, to always tell you what I'm feeling, especially when it has to do with the bulimia?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it has to be a two-way street, Sam. What if you'd been hurt instead of Dean? Would you have done the same thing to me that he's doing to you? Would you not even tell me you were hurt, try to treat yourself and not burden me with it?"

He thought about it for a moment. "I don't know. I might have," he admitted.

Her mouth tightened, and she looked away.

"It's how we were raised, TJ, to suck it up. Old habits are hard to break, I guess."

Her eyes were flaring with anger when she looked back at him. "Well, you better find a way to break those old habits, Sam Winchester. I'm not some delicate flower that you need to protect from worry. I won't freak out if you tell me what's goin' on, but I will freak out if you keep lying to me. Don't you see? I don't want to be wondering where you are or what's happening to you if you're a few minutes late gettin' home from work or class. I don't wanna doubt your word. If you tell me you're going to class, I want to be able to trust that's where you are and not wonder if you're secretly on a hunt with Dean that might get you both hurt or killed. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Her eyes welled with tears. "You lied to me, Sam. You told me you went to check on Rocket during Dean's lunch hour. You made it sound like you were only there an hour, tops."

He swallowed hard, feeling like a class A jerk. "I know. I was wrong to do that."

"At least now you know how it feels. Dean's doing the same thing to you, isn't he? He's protecting you from something, not giving you the whole story."

"Yeah. I think he is."

"It sucks, doesn't it?"

He felt a surge of irritation at the thought. "Yeah. It does."

A tear slid down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. "Don't ever do that to me again."

He tugged on her waist. "I won't."

She rubbed angrily at the moisture on her cheeks. "I'm not cryin' because I'm a crybaby. I'm cryin' because I'm fuckin' pissed off."

He brushed her hair back from her face. "I know."

She just lay there, crying silently.

He felt horrible that he'd hurt her and just wanted to make it go away. "Come here," he said, and pulled her so that she was on her side facing him, her head just inches from his. He looked her squarely in the eye. "I will never lie to you again, TJ. I swear you will never have a reason not to trust me."

Her eyes lowered as another tear rolled down her cheek.

"You forgive me?" he asked softly.

She nodded, still crying.

"Don't cry, Teej. It's breaking my heart."

She let out a little sob. "I can't stop."

He kissed her forehead. "Why?"

"I don't know." She sounded bewildered and small.

He kissed the freckles on top of her nose. "I think maybe finals and everything that has happened in the last few weeks has caught up with you."

Her breath hitched.

"I think you're exhausted."

"Maybe," she said through a fresh batch of tears.

He paused and then said quietly, "You've been really worried about Dean, too, haven't you?"

She exhaled a shaky breath and nodded, still not meeting his eyes. "He's just been so sick. I feel so bad for him."

He was touched by her deep concern for Dean and felt lucky that she and Dean got along so well. He didn't think he could be with someone who didn't accept Dean, but TJ seemed to understand that Sam and Dean were a package deal. He lifted her chin and gave her a long, lingering kiss on the lips.

Her crying stopped and she sighed, sounding relieved and content. He pulled away a fraction to see that she had fallen asleep, and he smiled to himself.

Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyelids were puffy, and her long, dark lashes were clumped together, like she'd just gotten out of the shower. Her hair was a little mussed and was creased from where it had been up in a ponytail for who knew how long. Her nose was red and stuffed up from crying; her lips were parted in the shape of a childlike, round O. He could feel her breath in warm, even puffs on his face, could smell the faint, minty scent of her toothpaste.

She was, in that moment, by far the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. He felt a fierce love for her and a need to always protect her, but he'd meant what he said. He would be honest with her from now on. No more holding things back.

He reached over and turned off the lamp on the nightstand, then put his arm over her, claiming her as his. "Merry Christmas, Joy," he whispered.

For the first time in his life, he felt blessed instead of cursed.

**XXXXXXXX**

Heather had just finished a walking tour of the Hotel del Coronado, and she lingered in the spectacular wood-paneled lobby, waiting for her guide, Louise, to finish speaking with a few other tourists who were asking questions. Heather tried not to be impatient, but it was hard. She wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for, but she was there to get answers. She hoped to find some sort of connection between the ghost of the hotel and Dean's stay there with his dad and Sam. She didn't know if Louise would be able to help her, but it was worth a try.

Finally, Louise was free and began walking toward the entrance of the hotel. Heather caught up to her. "Excuse me, Louise, but I was wondering if you might have time to have a cup of coffee with me. I'm doing some research on the Del. You gave a wonderful tour, and you seem so knowledgeable. I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions for me."

Louise was a little stoop-shouldered but otherwise spry for her seventy-plus years, and she gave a sweet, grandmotherly smile. "Sure, dear. You don't have to buy me a cup of coffee, though. It'll cost you an arm and a leg."

Heather shrugged. "It's my pleasure. I don't mind at all."

They ended up at the Babcock & Story Bar, which overlooked the Windsor Lawn of the hotel. The hotel converted the lawn into an ice skating rink every year during this time around Christmas, and it was certainly a unique sight to behold. The weather was a bit nippy for San Diego, around 56 degrees, but the sun was still peeking through swaying palms. Christmas Day had been yesterday, but the skaters still glided to the sound of Christmas tunes with the Pacific Ocean and the sandy beach as a backdrop.

To Heather's surprise, Louise ordered an Irish Coffee with an extra shot of whiskey. "I'm old, but I'm not dead, dear," she said with a wink.

Heather smiled and ordered a regular coffee. After all, it was only just past noon.

Once the waiter delivered their drinks, Louise said, "So, what was it you wanted to know, dear? Ask me anything. I know everything there is to know about the Del. I've been with the Coronado Historical Society for fourteen years and been giving tours of the hotel for eleven." The pleasant, polite expression on her face morphed into something a little sad. "It was a lifesaver, really, after my husband Charlie died."

"Well..." Heather sipped her coffee, giving herself a second to figure out how to broach the subject. "I'm—I'm researching the ghost that was said to haunt the hotel."

"Oh, yes. Kate Morgan." Louise acted like it was every day that she was asked about the ghost, and maybe it was.

Louise warmed up to the subject and told Heather all about Kate, the "Beautiful Stranger," how she'd checked in under an assumed name and committed suicide, although many thought she'd been murdered. Louise told some anecdotes about the things Kate's ghost had done. "She got really nasty toward the end. Got crotchety in her old age and didn't like people staying in her room, I guess," she said with a little chuckle. "Several guests were injured. Just minor things at first, but then it got peculiar. One lady got a pretty hard knock to her noggin by a light fixture that fell on her head. Almost killed her."

"Oh, my gosh," said Heather with a grimace of sympathy.

"Yes. It was getting ugly, and then the activity just stopped." She leaned forward, a twinkle in her eye and cheeks rosy from the effects of the Irish coffee. "Some say the hotel management secretly hired a medium to get rid of her somehow with a séance, but I have my own theory."

"Oh?"

She gave a short nod. "I think it was that man. What was his name? He was here with his two teenage sons. Fish out of water, they were, but, oh, they were handsome. Not the usual type of guests we get here."

Heather's heart started to beat faster. "What do you mean?"

Louise shrugged and took a nip of her coffee. "It's a pretty ritzy place, you know. They didn't seem like they had a lot of money, yet they stayed for two whole weeks. I had just started giving tours, and, boy, were they curious. Kept asking me all kinds of strange questions during my breaks about the history of the hotel and the ghost in particular."

Heather felt excitement rush through her. It had to be Dean, Sam, and their dad that Louise was talking about. Had to be.

Louise turned her head a little, looking at Heather out of the corner of her eye. "If you ask me, they had something to do with getting rid of that ghost. There were still sightings of her and strange happenings after that ridiculous séance that supposedly got rid of her, but it all stopped abruptly the day that man and his boys left, not even a flicker of a light."

"It wasn't Winchester by any chance, was it?"

"What?"

Heather cleared her throat. "Their last name. It wasn't Winchester, was it?"

Louise frowned. "No." She put a finger over her mouth and looked pensive. "Oh, yes," she said, light dawning on her face. "It was McGillicutty, like Lucy Ricardo's maiden name on _I Love Lucy_. That's why I remember. What a great TV show that was. They don't make 'em like that anymore," she lamented.

"Do you remember his first name?"

"Yes. It was Elroy, I believe. I remember because I thought he didn't look like an Elroy."

"Oh." Heather sat back in her chair, feeling a little deflated. But who cared if she didn't get definitive proof it was John Winchester? All the evidence added up that it was him. Besides, it would make sense for him to use an alias, given his line of "work." How much more evidence did she need?

Louise snapped her fingers and looked proud of herself. "And his sons' names were Sam and Dean."

Heather couldn't keep a silly grin from spreading across her face.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sam had just exited the elevator and was rolling down the hallway toward Dean's room when his phone rang. He stopped, fished it out of his jeans pocket, and looked at the screen. "Hey, Bobby," he answered.

"_Sam? How's Dean?"_

"Better. They moved him from the ICU into a regular room yesterday morning."

"_You sure you don't need me to come out there?"_

"No. Not unless you just want to, Bobby. I know you got a lot going on right now, and Dean understands. You know how he is. He hates being in the hospital and isn't really big on visitors. Hopefully, if they can get his fever to come down, they'll be releasing him soon."

"_You idjits better be telling me the truth. If you really need me, just say so."_

"Nah, Bobby. We're good. It was a little scary the first few days, but you couldn't have gotten here then, anyway. I mean, it would have taken you at least a couple of days to drive out here, and now he's doing better. He'll live."

Bobby sighed. _"He ever tell you what really happened?"_

"No. He gets pissed off and agitated when I bring it up."

"_Yeah? Well, something definitely went down there, Sam. I called some people like you asked me to do, and word is there was a major clean-up at the Ford house. Lots of dead vamps and werewolves, among other things, including our 'pal' Gordon Walker. Gunshot wound to the back, straight through his heart. And here's the kicker: You ever hear of a woman named Yvette Burke?"_

Sam could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Yeah," he said numbly. "She's that philanthropist that was just recently found. She'd been missing for several months. Everyone had lost hope."

"_Right. Well, she was found all right—at the Ford house. Jerry Reynolds was part of the clean-up. He helped her out of there with her newborn son. They were in pretty bad shape but alive. Looked like she'd been tortured."_

"Jesus, Bobby."

"_I know. Dean called Jerry and a couple of other hunters that were friends of your dad's to take care of it. Dean knew about it, Sam. All of it."_

Sam swallowed, a sick feeling pooling in his gut. "Why, Bobby? Why would he hide it from me?"

"_I don't know. Don't ask me what goes on in that thick skull of his. Maybe he's protecting the Burke woman for some reason?"_

Sam exhaled harshly, his annoyance with Dean ratcheting up a notch.

"_Listen to me, Sam. I know you're angry at him, but that kid don't ever do anything without a good reason. Remember that. Don't say or do anything you'll regret later. He's your brother, and he's sick. Don't make things worse than they already are."_

Sam didn't reply.

"_Sam?"_

"Thanks, Bobby," he said, and ended the call.

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean was just finishing up saltines, ginger ale, and an apple for dinner—not yet ready to brave the chicken noodle soup on his tray—and so far, so good. He didn't feel queasy, at least not yet. It was the geriatric dinner hour of five o'clock, and he'd been in the regular room since yesterday morning. He still felt like crap and was still hacking up a lung every so often, but his fever was down and his head felt clearer and didn't ache so much.

His ribs still hurt like a bitch, and he wanted to run every time the respiratory therapist came to do his chest therapy. A more fitting name for it would be chest torture. At least they were still giving him the good stuff for a pain med. It took a little of the edge off and made it bearable.

He was still so damn weak. He'd insisted on getting up to use the john last night instead of a bedpan and had almost passed out halfway to the bathroom from the exertion. If the nurse present in his room hadn't had a wheelchair at the ready for him to sit in, he would have fallen and probably reinjured his ribs. He couldn't believe how dramatically he had weakened in just the six days he'd been in the hospital. It was a stark reminder of just how much the pneumonia had ravaged his body.

He needed to get moving again and get his strength up because he wanted to get the hell out of there. He'd thought about signing himself out against medical advice, but he thought better of it after almost face-planting last night. He'd give it at least another day.

As if to remind him just how sick he was, his body chose that moment to have a coughing attack. He grabbed his sore ribs in order to brace them and coughed up yet another round of lung gunk, spitting it into the emesis basin that was sitting on his nightstand. Just reaching for the damn thing had made him see stars and black dots dancing before his eyes. He tried not to tense up and fight the pain like Sam said to do, breathing deeply through it and riding the wave.

When he was done, he set the basin on his overbed table without thinking and realized he'd set it next to the untouched chicken noodle soup on his tray. The sight of the soup's color and the consistency of the noodles was similar to the crud he'd been coughing up, and he almost tossed up the crackers and apple he'd eaten, just barely managing to keep them down. He pushed the table away and thought about trying to get up and pour himself a cup of water from the bathroom, but after his unsuccessful foray last night, he decided it was a bad idea. Besides, some nurse or doctor would be in soon to poke and prod him. He'd get some then.

Okay. So maybe he'd wait another two days to leave the hospital instead of just one.

He was beginning to feel a little sorry for himself, so he was glad when he heard Sam's voice just outside the door, which was slightly ajar. "Dean?"

"Come in," Dean called hoarsely, wincing slightly at the effort.

Sam had reluctantly gone back to work at Shorty's today because Dean was better and had been moved to a regular room. Dean had encouraged him to go in for at least a few hours so Sam's bosses wouldn't get pissed at him for missing so much work. Since Sam was done with classes until January, he could work during the day.

Of course, TJ had been at the hospital while Sam was working to keep Dean company. She had brought him some T-shirts and sweatpants from home to wear instead of the drafty hospital gowns, and Dean was grateful to her for thinking about it.

Sam wheeled into the room, pushed the door shut, and rolled up close to Dean's bed, an unreadable expression on his face. "Hey. How you feeling?"

"Fine." Dean wondered why he and Sam always asked each other that question. It wasn't like either of them ever gave an honest answer. He studied Sam for a second. Sam seemed a little distracted somehow, and Dean knew instantly that something was up.

Sam nodded and idly worked his wheels back and forth, a sort of faraway, pensive look in his eyes.

Dean let out another small cough. "Could you—uh, could you get me some water?" He hated to ask, even for such a simple thing, didn't like the feeling of helplessness.

Sam didn't react, just kept staring off into space.

"Sam?"

He looked at Dean then. "Huh?"

"Water?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Nurse forgot to leave a pitcher."

"Right. Hold on." He disappeared into the bathroom and wheeled back out a couple of seconds later with a small paper cup in his lap, wedged between his legs so it wouldn't spill. When he reached Dean, he handed the cup to him.

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Dean took a couple of sips, savoring the cool water as it slid past his raw, sore throat, and then set it gingerly on the nightstand.

Sam looked distracted again, a slight crease in his brow. Usually, he was giving Dean the third degree by now, asking if the doctor had come in, what he'd said, wanting to know if Dean's temperature had come down any more, coaxing Dean to eat more.

"You're sure quiet," Dean remarked.

Sam looked for a moment as if Dean had just spoken to him in Swahili. "What?" he finally asked.

"You're quiet. What's going on in that geeky brain of yours?"

His brows lifted. "Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Dean scrutinized him, not believing him for a second. "How was work?"

"Fine."

They were quiet again, Dean waiting to see what Sam would do. Sam was lost in thought, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees, brow wrinkled. The silence was deafening to Dean, and he lost his patience. "Sam, what the hell? Usually when you come in here, I can't shut you up."

Sam glanced up at him. "I just talked to Bobby a second ago."

Dread snaked through Dean. Bobby had his fingers in so many pies, there was no doubt he had the contacts to get information for Sam about what went down at the Ford house, and he wouldn't be surprised if Sam had asked. His little brother was stubborn, and Dean knew Sam wasn't buying his broken-ribs-in-the-kitchen story. He kept asking too many questions about it, and no matter how irritated Dean got and told him to drop it, Sam wouldn't let it go.

Dean had told the hunters he'd called in for the clean-up to keep a lid on it, but he knew they'd spill the beans if Bobby asked. They all owed Bobby too many favors not to cave if Bobby put the pressure on them to talk. "What did Bobby have to say?"

Sam was still leaning forward, and he loosely clasped his hands together. "He's worried about you. Wanted to know if he should come out here."

Dean was going to say that it wasn't necessary, but a cough came out instead. Sam grabbed the basin from the overbed table, grimacing when he saw its contents, and handed it to him. When Dean was done hacking, he handed the basin back to Sam instead of putting it on the nightstand.

Sam scrunched his nose in disgust. "Thanks a lot."

Dean leaned back against his nest of pillows, wincing at the pain in his side and chest. "Don't say...I never gave you anything, Sammy," he croaked.

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed himself into the bathroom, the basin resting on his lap. Dean heard water running from the sink, and then Sam came back out a few minutes later and set the now clean basin on the nightstand, within Dean's easy reach.

"What else did Bobby say?" asked Dean, trying not to seem concerned.

Sam looked down for a second and then up, focusing on Dean with intensity.

Dean was positive in that moment that Bobby had told him something, and he wanted to know what it was. "Sam—"

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Sam turned his head toward the door. "Come in," he called, before Dean could even react.

The door swung open slowly, and Heather walked into the room. Her blue eyes took in first Sam and then rested on Dean. She looked totally hot in jeans and a tight, gray sweater.

It hurt to look at her, and Dean closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a pang of longing in his treacherous body, a tightening in his belly that spread to his chest and throat, making it hard to breathe. Damn her for making him feel this way.

She cleared her throat. "Hi, guys." She sounded kind of nervous.

"Hey, Heather," said Sam in a friendly tone. He sounded surprised and glad to see her.

There was an awkward pause, and Dean knew they were waiting for a response from him. He opened his eyes. "Hey," he rasped out. It sounded surly and unwelcoming.

The tenuous smile on her face fell. "I hope—um, am I interrupting something?"

"No, not at all," Sam was quick to answer.

Dean forced himself to take in a deep, painful breath and said rudely, "Actually, yeah, you are."

Sam looked at him like he was crazy and then said to Heather, "No, you're not. In fact, I need to run an errand. I'm glad you're here to keep him company."

Dean frowned. "Where are you going?"

"There's something I need to do. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Sam, you just got here."

"I know. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Where are you going?" Dean repeated. He didn't like this at all, not combined with the weird way Sam had been acting since he'd gotten there.

"It's just something I need to take care of. It's, uh, a late Christmas gift." He said it as if he'd just thought of it. "There's something I want to get for TJ. A surprise."

Dean knew he was lying. "Sam, does this..." He trailed off, looking at Heather, frustrated that he couldn't speak freely. "Does this have anything to do with, you know, your conversation with Bobby?"

There was a tick in Sam's jaw, and he didn't deny it. "I'll be back tomorrow, Dean." He swiveled his chair and pushed himself toward the door. "It was good to see you, Heather," he said as he rolled past her.

She had a slightly perplexed look on her face. "Yeah. You, too, Sam."

Dean felt a mixture of anger, fear, and frustration as he watched Sam leave, and he aimed it at Heather. "What the hell are you doing here?"

_**TBC**_


	10. Chapter 10

**_A/N: Special thanks to skzb and sallyloveslinus for taking the time to help make this a better story._  
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**Chapter 10**

Heather's heart sank at Dean's harsh tone. She was off to a bad start. So far, she'd been there all of two minutes and had somehow managed to piss him off. He was glowering at her, his expressive brows drawn into a vee that she knew didn't bode well.

"I..." God. She didn't know where to begin. She was so afraid that he wouldn't forgive her, and she wanted so desperately to say the right words, to make him understand. She felt like an idiot just standing there, but she was afraid to move closer to him. He was radiating hostility.

Physically, he looked a little better. He was wearing a white T-shirt instead of a hospital gown and looked more like himself. His face wasn't quite so flushed with fever, and he didn't sound as wheezy, but they were still giving him oxygen through a nasal cannula and he still had the IVs.

The sheet and beige blanket covering him were pooled around his legs from where he'd been moving them, and the drawstring waist of his gray sweatpants was exposed. The pillows that were propping him up gave him a vulnerable quality that made her want to hug and comfort him, but she stayed rooted to her spot, afraid to approach him.

He was still scowling at her.

"I'm sorry," she finally said, breaking the standoff between them. "I didn't mean to interrupt something between you and Sam."

He laid his head back against the pillow, a look of defeat and worry on his features that seemed out of place, given his animosity toward her a second ago.

"I—I was hoping we could talk."

He closed his eyes. "There's nothing left to say."

She found the courage to step closer and sat in the soft vinyl chair that was in between his bed and the window, setting her purse down near it on the floor. It was an improvement from the hard plastic chair that had been in the ICU.

"Look," he said, his voice sounding rough, "if this has to do with me saying I loved you when I was out of my head, I didn't mean it. I obviously didn't know what the hell I was saying, and I for sure don't remember saying it. I..." He paused. "I've been dreaming about my mom a lot. Maybe I thought I was talking to her or something."

"Oh. Of course." She was resting her arms on her knees, and she looked down at her hands, hoping her face didn't give away how much it hurt that he hadn't meant it, that he didn't even remember saying he loved her.

"Is that what you came to talk about? Because don't worry. I know it's over between us. You made it clear what your feelings were. I'm a psycho and a liar. Enough said."

"Dean—"

"What else do you want from me, Heather, a thank-you or something? According to Sam, you were amazing and very professional out there that day you treated me, so thanks," he jeered. "But it's not like you would freak out, right? It wasn't like you were treating someone you cared about. I was just another victim to you—right?—just some poor, crazy bastard that was dumb enough to run his car into a ditch."

"No. God, Dean. What I said that day at my apartment—I—" She shook her head, starting over. "Forget what happened at the apartment. The moment I saw the Impala in that ditch, it was all I could do to hold it together. I was so scared. You were so sick. I—"

"Just leave," he said, clearly not interested in anything she had to say. He pressed his lips together like he was trying to hold in a cough. He failed and started hacking profusely like he'd done the other night.

She held the plastic basin in front of him and placed a hand on his back, but he grabbed the basin with one hand and pushed her away, wincing. "Don't need...your help," he wheezed.

She stood back and watched helplessly as he was wracked with coughs, wondering if she should call a nurse. After what seemed like forever, it was over, and, holding his side with one hand, he set the basin on the nightstand and fell back onto his pillows.

She took the basin into the bathroom and emptied it in the sink, rinsing it out. When she brought it back and set it on the nightstand, he looked even angrier.

"I don't need your help or your pity. I just want you to get the fuck out of here."

His words knocked the breath out of her. Her throat narrowed painfully and she swallowed, fighting tears welling in her eyes. His rejection was what she'd been afraid of, and nothing she didn't deserve. She drew in a ragged breath, feeling her heart grow heavy, seeing the hope that she could make things right between them slipping through her fingers.

She knew she should leave, that her presence was upsetting him, but first she grabbed her purse and took out a small book. "I'll go." Her voice sounded small and thready to her own ears. She cleared her throat, trying to sound stronger and more in control of her emotions than she felt. "I just—I brought this for you." She held the book out for him to take.

He hesitated, eyeing it at first with distaste, like he wasn't going to accept it. Then the title caught his eye and he seemed to freeze. After a moment, he reluctantly took it from her, turned it over in his hands, and then opened the front cover, reading the handwritten inscription on the inside.

She waited for what seemed like forever, hoping it would get a reaction from him, but he didn't say anything. His face was unreadable, as if it meant nothing. Profound disappointment spread through her, and she turned to leave.

She was stopped by a warm hand grabbing her wrist.

**XXXXXXXX **

Dean couldn't believe his eyes. The name of the book was _Beautiful Stranger: The Ghost of Kate Morgan and the Hotel del Coronado._ On the inside, there was a simple handwritten note: _"To Sam and Dean McGillicutty. Thank you for all that you did. My sympathies for the loss of your father. He was unforgettable. -Louise."_

Dean's heart started to pound, and he was glad he wasn't hooked up to the stupid heart monitor anymore because it would be off the charts right now. He dropped the book in his lap and grabbed Heather's wrist before she could leave. "Wait," he said, ignoring the pain the movement caused in his ribs.

She was already turned toward the door, and she froze, not looking at him.

"Why did you give this to me?"

She turned to him, her expression a little defensive, a little defiant. "I took a tour of the Del on a hunch. The tour guide was a lovely elderly lady who was sharp as a tack. I invited her for a coffee after the tour was over." Her gaze was direct and full of meaning. "She told me all about the ghost that haunted the hotel, how the ghost was never seen again after the day Elroy McGillicutty and his two teenage sons, Sam and Dean, suddenly left."

Dean felt a seed of hope start to grow, and he looked at her for a long moment. Those startling eyes of hers never wavered from him, and the air around them felt charged with a sudden energy. He tugged on her wrist, wanting her closer.

She sat down cautiously on the edge of his bed and set her purse back on the floor, then slanted a tentative look at him. "Louise was quite talkative," she said almost nonchalantly, "especially after she polished off an Irish coffee with a double shot of Jameson's. She was convinced you, Sam, and your dad had something to do with getting rid of the ghost, and once the job was done, you disappeared, just like the ghost."

He felt a euphoric emotion he could hardly contain, but kept his voice even. "You gonna believe some crazy old tour guide? How do you know she's not psycho, too? Maybe she's in the same cult Sam, TJ, and I are in. Maybe she's the one that lures the poor, clueless virgins in for us to sacrifice." He was being sarcastic, but his heart suddenly felt lighter, like an oppressive fog was lifting. "Who would suspect a sweet, little old lady, right?"

She quirked one side of her mouth in that crooked way she had and leaned a little closer to him. "Is that what happened to your ribs? Some virgin fought back and cracked them?"

He gave a small shrug. "Virgins get a little pissed when they're about to be sacrificed."

There was a glint of humor in her eyes, but then she grew more solemn. "Tell me what happened, Dean." The almost seductive quality of her voice said she would believe him, that she was daring him to tell the truth.

He took a moment to assess her, debating whether he should.

She gently freed her wrist from his hold and took his hand in hers, giving it a squeeze. "Tell me."

He drew in as deep a breath as he could, coughing a little on the exhale. When he finally spoke, he watched her intently to see her reaction. "It was a hunter named Gordon Walker. He was helping Dr. Doolittle use shapeshifter and other monster cells to do stem cell research, trying to find a cure for SCI. It's a long story, but Gordon shoved me hard into some shelves."

She arched a brow. "Now, that's something I can believe," she said with a small, teasing smirk, "not some farfetched story about tripping over a boot and falling in the kitchen."

He didn't know what to say. A petty part of him wanted to hold a grudge, angry that she hadn't believed him, but he'd known from the beginning that she was pragmatic and based her beliefs on tangible facts and logic. It was part of her makeup, part of what made her who she was. She believed only in what she could see. He'd known it would be an uphill battle trying to convince her that the supernatural was real. It was why he'd been such a chicken shit and put off telling her.

Her eyes suddenly brightened with moisture and her chin quivered. She glanced up at the ceiling and took in a shaky breath, obviously trying to control her emotions, before meeting his eyes again. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I wanted to believe you. I really did. God, part of me didn't even care anymore if you were nutty as a fruitcake. I'd pretty much convinced myself it didn't matter, that I could overlook it."

He snorted and then winced slightly when he felt a stitch in his side. "But part of you couldn't. Part of you still needed proof, one way or the other."

She frowned, and her mouth tightened defensively. "I mean, for God's sake. You told me you beheaded a vampire."

Those words, coming from her, sounded crazy even to him, and he held in a smile at the absurdity of it. "So, you went to the Del. You remembered me telling you that we stayed there?"

She nodded. "And the ghost you told me about."

He idly rubbed his thumb up and down the inside of her wrist, soaking in the feel of her soft skin. "And Louise was your tour guide?" He could hardly believe it was the same lady. It had been so long ago.

"I got the impression she's a little lonely and it's all she really has going on. Plus, I think she genuinely loves the hotel and its history. She's a wealth of information on it. She was a member of the Coronado Historical Society several years before she ever started giving tours of the hotel."

"Yeah. I remember her. She was a huge help, saved us—or Sam—hours of research."

Her expression was fervent and sincere. "Dean, I'll never doubt you again. Ever. I'll believe everything you tell me from now on."

He arched his brows. "Everything?"

"Everything."

He grabbed the front of her soft, gray sweater and gently pulled her closer, drowning in the cool blue of her eyes. "Okay," he said in all seriousness. "Then, I'm Batman."

She made a noise that was part laugh, part snort of disbelief, and when he kissed her, he could feel the smile still on her lips. "Maybe not that."

He smiled back and thought his heart might explode. His blood was rushing through his body, and a heat was spreading through him that had nothing to do with his fever. "You know when I told you I loved you?"

She rested her forehead on his. "Yeah?"

"I wasn't hallucinating. I knew I was talking to you."

She drew back and looked him in the eye, turning her head a little to the side. "You were confused, oxygen deprived."

"I knew what I was saying, and I meant every word."

"You thought you were dying," she countered.

He brushed a lock of her coppery hair back behind her ear. "I'm not now."

She searched his face, as if making sure he was saying what she thought he was.

"Plus, someone kept kissing me in my dreams, and it definitely wasn't my mom."

She blushed, lowering her gaze, and gave a shaky laugh.

"I love you."

Her head snapped up, and the smile that spread across her face took his breath away. She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly and thoroughly. He could feel the movement of her lips on his as she said softly, "I love you, too, Dean McGillicutty."

Things were getting steamy when she pulled away to look at him, a mischievous, calculating gleam in her eye. "You know, it was fun going to the Del, digging up the past. I could get used to the hunting thing."

A pang of fear lanced through him at the mere idea. "Let me be clear on this, Heather. No. Fucking. Way."

One corner of her mouth quirked to the side. "We'll talk about it when you feel better," she said, obviously unfazed by his answer.

"Heather—"

She pressed her lips to his, effectively cutting him off, and quickly deepened the kiss into something that was intoxicating. He forgot what he was going to say.

**XXXXXXXX**

It was three days after Christmas, and Heather was sitting at the dinette table watching Sam and TJ, who were in the kitchen. She smiled to herself.

Dean had been released from the hospital late that morning. His fever was down to 100, the magic number for him to be released, and his appetite was better. His breathing was almost normal, although he was still supposed to continue loosening the sputum in his lungs by doing chest therapy at home, which included rhythmic breathing and coughing every four hours and breathing into an incentive spirometer—a hand-held, clear plastic device that included a breathing tube and a container with a movable gauge. He was also instructed to stay away from work for at least another two weeks to give his ribs a better chance to heal.

His stay in the hospital had been longer than most with pneumonia, due to the fact that he hadn't responded to the first antibiotic and the complication of his broken ribs. He had groaned when the doctor had said to stay home from work, protesting that he'd already missed too much; but Heather knew that between Sam, TJ, and herself, they'd make sure he got plenty of rest and did what he was supposed to do.

It was now mid-afternoon, and he was napping in his room while Heather, TJ, and Sam got a head start on the belated Christmas feast they were going to have tomorrow. Sam had his leg braces on and was standing at the counter, studying the instructions for the ham. TJ was writing furiously on a piece of paper. They both had frowns of concentration on their faces and were strategically planning out the menu, going over the ingredients for everything and trying to figure out when things would need to be stuck in the oven so that everything would be ready around the same time. It was like they were planning a battle.

Heather was sitting at the dining table peeling and cubing potatoes in order to make mashed potatoes. There was enough to feed an army, but TJ had insisted that she had to follow her mom's recipe to the letter and scoffed at Heather's suggestion that they half the recipe. "Besides," TJ had said, "we gotta have leftovers."

Heather figured they'd have enough mashed potatoes for Christmas dinner next year, especially since Dean's appetite wasn't yet at full throttle.

She got up from the table and made her way to them. She had something to say, something she should have said a long time ago. She reached up and put a hand on each of their shoulders, feeling unusually short next to her tall friends. "Um, you guys?"

They both looked away from their list and ham instructions, twin looks of expectancy on their faces.

"I..." She felt a little awkward now that she had their attention. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, you know, for not believing you guys about the hunting stuff. You're two of my closest friends, and I...well, I'm sorry."

They shared a look, and then Sam's brow creased, understanding in his eyes. "It's okay. It was a reasonable reaction. It's not every day your boyfriend comes home with his shirt soaked in vampire blood."

She pretended to contemplate that, frowning to cover her amusement. "Yeah. That was a tad unsettling."

He smiled at her understatement.

She turned to TJ, more serious. "I'm sorry I didn't answer any of your voice mails or texts. I just needed time, but it was—"

"Girl, I know. You don't need to apologize for that. It's no big deal."

"Yes, it is. I was a crappy friend, and the truth is, I could have used some girl talk around that time." She glanced down, trying to find the right words to explain. "I—I'm sort of a loner in some ways, I guess. I tend to try to deal with things on my own. I don't want to burden anyone."

TJ rolled her eyes and slanted a look at Sam.

Sam's features were the picture of innocence, but there was mischief in his eyes. "What?"

TJ shook her head.

"So, I think I've got a lot of catching up to do," said Heather, wry humor coloring her tone. "I have a feeling you guys have got some really interesting stories to tell."

Sam grinned, showing deep dimples. "Welcome to the fold."

**XXXXXXXX**

Dean saw a sliver of light from the hallway beam into his room as somebody quietly opened his door. He had the blinds closed on his window, and his room was dim. He was lying on his good side, facing the door, and had just woken from his nap. "I'm awake," he said hoarsely.

The door opened wider, further illuminating the room, and Sam came in taking careful steps, swinging one leg forward at a time with the help of his crutches, more like really walking, instead of swinging both legs through, like he did when he wanted to move faster. "How you feeling?"

Dean did a quick mental assessment. His ribs still hurt and he still felt tired and crappy, but he could breathe again, which was definitely an improvement. "Better."

"Good. You feel like talking?"

"About what?" He felt a prickle of foreboding.

Sam made his way around and plopped down on the empty side of Dean's bed. Dean's back was to him now, but he felt the mattress dip with the weight of Sam's Sasquatch body. Dean gingerly rolled onto his back, wincing at the ache the movement caused in his ribs.

Sam leaned his crutches against the wall and lifted his stiff legs up onto the bed one at a time, tugging on the denim of his jeans with his hands. Then he scooted himself back and rested against the headboard. Once settled, he looked at Dean, brows drawn together. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Whatever Dean had expected, it wasn't that. "Why?"

"For not knowing you were sick."

"I didn't want you to know."

"Still, I would have noticed if I hadn't been so caught up in my own life."

Dean rolled his eyes. "This isn't on you. I've had cracked ribs before. I thought I'd be sore for a few weeks and that'd be the end of it. I thought I could handle it."

"You should have told me."

"You had a lot of shit going on."

"_Nothing_ is more important than you."

Dean felt an unexpected surge of emotion and swallowed. "Ah, thanks, Sammy. You gonna take me out for dinner and a movie, buy me flowers? TJ might get jealous."

"Dean, I'm serious."

He didn't know what to say and glanced away.

Sam's expression morphed into a bitchface. "Don't pull that shit again, Dean. Don't hide an injury or that you're sick from me for any reason. You hear me?"

Dean cleared some gunk from his throat. "Yeah."

Sam's gaze lingered on him, heavy with warning.

"I _won't_." His tone implied that it was a promise.

Sam stared at him for another minute for good measure. Finally, he gave a short, satisfied nod and changed the subject. "So, I went to see Yvette Burke."

Dean cast him a sharp look, lifting his head up a little off the pillows, angry that Sam had gone to see her. "You swore, Sam."

He shrugged. "Hey, I swore I wouldn't go back to the Ford house, but I didn't say I wouldn't investigate anywhere else."

Dean sighed, letting his head fall back onto the pillows. "That's where you went the other day after you talked to Bobby, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Sam gave him a dry look. "Yvette looked remarkably good for having been tortured eight months."

Dean slowly closed his eyes, feeling his stomach lurch.

"But then she would, seeing as how she's a shapeshifter. They heal remarkably fast under normal conditions, don't they?"

Dean drew in a deep breath, taking a minute to choose his words. On the exhale, he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm. He began to sit up and felt Sam's hand on his back, helping him. He held his sore ribs and spit into a disposable cup on his nightstand, grimacing. The doctor had said the cough would probably linger for months, which sucked.

Dean had known this moment was coming. Sam had been holding something back, biding his time for days, probably waiting until he thought Dean was well enough to talk about it.

Dean had told Heather everything that had happened at the Ford house, and she'd been urging him to come clean with Sam. Now she was the one in the loop, and TJ and Sam had been left in the dark. Dean hadn't missed the irony in that.

He adjusted his pillows and gingerly sat against the headboard in a similar position as Sam. "Bobby tell you everything?"

Sam gave a faint nod. "Some of it. He talked to Jerry, got the story of the clean-up, the dead vamps and other monsters. He knew about Yvette Burke but not that she was a shifter. I got a lot of the story from her," he paused with a look of revulsion, "how they cut away pieces of her skin, starved her." He paused again, and his voice grew quieter. "She said to tell you thank you."

Dean hung his head.

"She wasn't sure what they used her skin for," Sam continued, "because she was always locked away in a separate room. She said when you set her free, she saw a room full of animals in cages—chimps, dogs, cats, and the like."

Sam was doing a good job of rehashing it all, so Dean remained quiet.

"My guess is that the doctor was trying to find a cure for his wife's quadriplegia. Maybe using stem cells from the shifter and other creatures, using the normal animals for experimentation?"

Dean stared at his hands, still not commenting.

"How close was he to a cure, Dean?"

It was a simple question, yet it was the one Dean most dreaded. He leaned his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

"Dean?"

Feeling like he was facing a firing squad, he slowly turned toward Sam and gave him a direct look. "He's had one success so far."

"What do you mean by 'success'?"

"Ford used the shifter cells to fuse together the severed spinal cord in a dog. All of his other experiments were failures, the animals either remaining paralyzed, turning vicious, or dying, but, that one time, he had the right combination."

Sam looked away, his jaw hardening with restrained emotion. He hesitated and took a deep breath before turning back to Dean, anguish in his eyes. "It was Rocket, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

Sam was sitting on top of Dean's bedspread, and he fisted a handful of the thick, hunter-green cotton fabric. Finally, he gave Dean a pensive look, forehead wrinkled. "So, I'm guessing Gordon Walker was procuring the supernatural creatures for Dr. Ford?"

Dean nodded.

"Bobby said Walker was found dead. Did you kill him?"

"No. He was about to kill me. Dr. Ford shot him, saved my life."

Sam rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. "You got in a fight with Walker? That's how you hurt your ribs?"

Dean felt a little sheepish. He hated to admit that Gordon had gotten the better of him. "Not much of a fight, really. I kicked Gordon's gun out of his hand, and he shoved me into some shelves."

Sam raised his brows.

"It was a really friggin' hard shove," Dean said defensively.

Sam nodded, and, after a pause, he gave Dean the wounded puppy eyes. "I don't get it, Dean. Why did you lie to me? Why did you hide it all?"

Dean couldn't believe Sam would ask him that. He thought the answer was obvious. "I..." He swallowed thickly, not wanting to say what he knew needed to be said. Finally, he took a fortifying breath, fighting the urge to get up and start pacing. "That doctor _cured_ Rocket, Sam. Hell, Rocket is better than he was before. Look at how high he can jump, how fast he can run. You saw what happened with the UPS truck, how he survived that. He's not only healed. It's like he's almost invincible. Dr. Ford was close to finding a miracle cure for SCI, not just for his wife but for you and thousands of others."

"Yeah?" said Sam, his tone implying he still didn't get it.

He couldn't stand to look Sam in the eye anymore and glanced away. "Jesus, Sam. I have to spell it out? I _ended_ it. I put a stop to it. Ford was so close, and I took that choice away from you. I..." He shook his head. "You went through hell last spring with Yellow Eyes. I didn't want you to have to make that choice again. I thought you'd be better off not knowing. I didn't want you to have to choose the chair again, to have to live with the what-ifs, knowing you were close to a cure and had to give it up _again_."

Sam's attention seemed to be on the wall in front of them, and he showed no emotion.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Maybe I should have talked to you about it before being so quick to put the kibosh on it. I got caught up in..." His voice faltered. "The animals, that shifter and her baby, it seemed so wrong what they were doing to them, what they were gonna do to that baby. Maybe I was wrong, though. They're shapeshifters, monsters. Normally, if it had been a regular hunt, I wouldn't have hesitated to kill her."

Sam's gaze shifted to him then, brow furrowed. "And you think I would have approved of what Dr. Ford was doing, experimenting on innocent animals—on _Rocket, _for Christ's sake—not to mention torturing a woman who is obviously nothing like the other shapeshifters we've encountered? Her baby was an innocent too, Dean—and he's half human. I saw him. There's no way I could have condoned experimenting on him or his mother."

Dean just sat there.

Sam ran a hand roughly through his shaggy mane of hair. "Jesus, Dean. Then there's the fact that I've already got demon blood in me. I'm enough freak already. I think I'll pass on the shifter cells which, more than likely, will make me bat-shit crazy or kill me instead of curing me."

"Ford would have found a cure if I'd let him continue his work."

"It was morally wrong. You did the right thing."

Dean felt his throat and chest constrict painfully and a hot burning in his eyes. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth, forcing himself to stay in control. "You could have been cured, Sam."

"Not like that. I don't want it."

"I want you to be happy."

Sam sighed. "Dude, wasn't that you I was talking to in the Impala that day of the stakeout? I could have sworn it was you sitting there in the driver's seat. Didn't you hear me? Maybe I didn't say it in so many words, but I _am_ happy. My life is going the direction I want it to. I mean, yeah. My disability gets in the way sometimes and it really sucks, but, believe it or not, there's times I don't even think about it anymore. It's made me stronger in some ways, a better person even."

Dean looked up at the ceiling, hating how emo he suddenly felt.

"You should have told me, Dean."

Dean found it hard to speak. "I was...afraid you'd hate me, Sammy."

"That's just stupid," Sam said, but there was no malice in his quiet tone.

Dean leaned his head against the headboard again, closing his eyes. He felt drained and profoundly relieved at the same time. Suddenly, a giant, orangutan arm snaked around his shoulders, and he felt himself being gently pulled toward Sam.

"Look, Dean. You're my big brother. Yeah. You piss me off sometimes and I wanna strangle you, but I could never hate you."

Dean's head was on Sam's shoulder. He'd never admit in a million years how good it felt. "Dude," he said matter-of-factly, "get off me."

Sam gave him an affectionate squeeze before letting him go.

"Bitch," Dean said with annoyance, making a show of holding his ribs.

Sam grinned. "I love you, too, Dean."

**XXXXXXXX**

The living room was quiet, except for the occasional noise from Rocket, who was asleep on his doggy bed. He would randomly let out a soft bark in his sleep from time to time, and his paws would move, like he was dreaming that he was running.

TJ spoke in a quiet tone, her Kentucky drawl laid-back and soothing. "I'm glad things worked out with Dean and Heather and that she finally knows everything."

"Yeah. Me, too," Sam said absently. He was genuinely happy for them but was distracted by his thoughts.

He had his arm around TJ, and they were sitting on the sofa, staring at the small, fake Christmas tree Heather and TJ had put up on the coffee table earlier in the day after they'd finished planning for the big Christmas feast tomorrow. The room was almost dark, and the only illumination was from the tree. It sent a pleasant, warm glow around them.

The tree was only about two feet tall and was one of those where the lights were already attached and the ornaments came with it in the box. The girls had gotten it seventy-five percent off at an after-Christmas sale.

Sam stared at the tiny ornaments on the tree and the twinkling white lights. He was nervous, and his heart rate was picking up speed.

TJ's head was on his shoulder, and her fingers were tracing lazy circles on his chest. He wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart.

He cleared his throat. "Nice tree."

"Thanks."

He tightened his arm around her. "Thanks for my Christmas presents."

She rose up and kissed him on the cheek. "You're welcome," she said, and laid her head on his shoulder again, nuzzling a little closer to him.

She'd gotten him some new clothes. Now he actually had a couple of shirts and pairs of jeans that didn't come from Goodwill. Heather had done the same for Dean. Sam figured the girls had gotten them at the sales when they'd bought the Christmas tree.

They'd had a small gift exchange sitting around the tree before Dean and Heather had gone to bed early. Dean was still weak, and his fever wasn't completely gone. He needed all the rest he could get, and Sam was glad Heather was there to goad him to bed instead of Sam having to do it.

It had been a little awkward that he and Dean hadn't gotten the girls anything, but they had seemed unfazed by it. Of course, no one had expected anything from Dean since he'd been in the hospital, and TJ probably hadn't really expected anything from Sam, knowing how he was about Christmas.

But Sam had gotten her something. He'd just wanted to give it to her in private.

He hadn't told anyone except TJ's parents. He'd had to tell them in order to get their blessing, but he wanted to share this moment with TJ before anyone else knew, even Dean.

His heart beat with the anticipation of it, the knowledge that his life and TJ's were about to be changed forever. He felt a flicker of sadness, a flashback to another time, another girl that he'd almost shared a similar moment with. Somehow, he didn't think Jessica would mind. She would've wanted him to be happy, and she would have liked TJ.

"You know," said Sam, trying to keep his voice even, "that tree has some really interesting ornaments."

TJ rose up into more of a sitting position and looked at him, a funny grimace of disbelief on her face, like she thought it was weird he'd said that.

"What?" he asked innocently. "It does."

"Sam," she said dubiously, "you're easily impressed. It's pretty run-of-the-mill." She shook her head. "Lord, y'all really weren't much into Christmas, were you?"

"No."

A hint of sympathy crossed her features, but she quickly masked it. "Maybe, you know—" She stopped abruptly and blushed.

"Maybe what?" He idly rubbed her back and then the nape of her neck, tenderly playing with the wispy tendrils of hair there that had fallen from her ponytail.

She shrugged casually, but she stared at a point somewhere near his lap, shyly avoiding his eyes. "Maybe you could come to Kentucky sometime for Christmas. That is," she rushed on, "I mean, you know, if we're still together. I know that's a long time away."

Sam raised his brows, amused at her sudden uncertainty.

"You should see some of the crazy ornaments my parents have collected over the years." Her smile was fond and a little nostalgic. "They go all out. My dad puts up so many lights that he has to get a separate generator for electricity to run them all."

Sam quirked one side of his mouth. "I wouldn't expect anything less from Fern and Vern."

She huffed and rolled her eyes, but there was love and indulgence for her parents behind it.

He levered himself forward, taking advantage of the freedom he had now that she wasn't resting her head on his shoulder. He reached out to the tree, fingering one of the supposed ornaments. It was a diamond ring nestled in the fake branches that wasn't noticeable—unless someone already knew it was there. "Huh," he said, picking it off the tree. He sat back against the sofa, holding it up to show TJ. "Now, see, this one looks interesting." He was pretending to scrutinize it, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

She frowned and took a closer look, then opened her mouth. No sound came out, and she froze. There was a long silence, and Sam's anticipation was almost a tangible thing.

Finally, she took the ring from his fingers, staring at it for a second, letting the facets of the diamond catch the twinkling light from the tree, and then her gaze shifted to his face. "Sam," she said cautiously, "what is this?"

He frowned, feigning consternation. "I don't know. Looks like a ring."

The corners of her mouth turned upward. "A ring for what?"

He locked eyes with her, suddenly serious, his heart seeming to expand as if it might outgrow his ribcage. "You."

Her mouth opened, but, again, she appeared to be speechless.

He sat up straighter and took her face in his hand, rubbing her cheekbone with his thumb. His voice came out sounding husky around the lump in his throat. "Maybe we should spend next Christmas in Kentucky—and every one after that, if you want."

She swallowed thickly. "What are you saying, Sam?"

He held her gaze. "I'm saying I love you, and I want to be with you for the rest of my life." He forced his voice to come out steady, belying the thunderous hammering of his heart and the slight shaking of his hands. "TJ, will you marry me?"

She started to laugh and cry at the same time, large brown eyes leaking tears. "Oh, my God."

He laughed, too, and wiped a few stray tears from her cheek, waiting for her answer.

She looked down at the ring she was still holding with both hands and then back to Sam, wonder spreading across her tear-streaked face. She suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips, her body trembling. Then she rested her forehead on his. "Oh, my God."

He grinned and pulled away enough to see her. "TJ?"

"What?"

"Are you gonna answer my question?"

A smile of pure joy lit up her face, and she slipped the gold band of the ring onto her finger. It was a little loose, but that could be fixed. "Yes," she answered, her eyes dancing. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—"

He laughed and cut her off with a kiss, then deepened it, mingling his tongue with hers and feeling a tingling warmth rush through him that he could swear he felt even down in his toes.

This was his life now, and it was good.

_**THE END**_

_**A/N: So, what did you think? **_

_**I have already started the next story in this series, "Remembering Joy," which continues with Sam and TJ's relationship. I don't want to give too much away, but here's a taste of what's coming up: marriage, law school, memory loss, and an old love of TJ's, just to name a few. I hope you guys will stay tuned!**_

_**I plan to start posting that story sometime in May. I want to get a lot of it written and give my betas more time to read so they won't be rushed. If you're interested, you might want to put me on your Author Alert so you will know when it comes out. It was also suggested that I tack on an alert to "Rocket Science" when I start posting the next one to let you guys know, so if you see another story alert for "Rocket Science," that's what it is. :)  
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_**Thanks for reading! You guys have been awesome, especially those who have reviewed. You keep the fire burning!  
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	11. Chapter 11

Hi guys!

Sorry if this is overkill, but some of you asked me to add on an update to my other two stories to let you know when I posted the latest story in the Redefining Joy AU, so here it is.

The story is called _Remembering Joy_, and I have posted Chapter 1 today and will post Chapter 2 tomorrow (Wednesday, May 30th).

Thanks to all of you for reading my other stories, and I hope this new one doesn't disappoint! :)

Take care,

Jen


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